


Reversing Life

by Loudest_Voice



Series: Fragments in Space [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Rewrite, Time Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 85,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not every day a person gets a chance to fix everything wrong in their world. </p><p>(Or another one where Harry gets stuck in the past with baby Tom Riddle.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be working on my other stories but . . . to make a long story short, I'm working about twelve-fourteen hours a day and I still have exams to prepare for. I don't have the mental capacity to work on a new story so I decided to clean up this one and put it over here. Which is turning into quite the endeavor. I might even end up changing the plot even.
> 
> Briefly, I considered taking down the FF.net version but I figured there might still be people that like reading it. I didn't want to be rude. Besides, it might be cool to see how different the two versions end up.

Harry was surprised and a little irritated that he was apparently _still_ alive.

He'd come to terms with possibility that he would not survive his destined fight with Voldemort a long time ago and after witnessing Snape’s last memory . . . well, at least there was a way to make his death mean something. If Ron and Hermione managed to kill Nagini someone would have a chance to get rid of Voldemort once and for all.

Or maybe he wasn't alive. He was floating. He could think, so he existed but he couldn't really connect with his body. He was naked (that was good; it meant he had a body that he could be naked _with_ ) but was strangely unbothered by it. Harry knew/felt that he was alone. He opened his eyes and tried to find something distinctive in the stark, eerie whiteness around him. After a few disoriented moments of not knowing where his limbs were, he made himself sit on . . . whatever he'd been laying.

Then he was stuck, not just because he didn’t know where he was, but because stringing more than a couple of thoughts together was as difficult as punching through solid steel. With a broken hand.

A pitiful sound made him twist his body around though he couldn’t pinpoint which direction it was coming from. There was just whiteness everywhere - whiteness and cold, or as cold as someone in a fog of maybe-deadness and nakedness could be. If only he had clothes.

The instant he wished for them, Harry was draped in comfortable clothes. The most comfortable he’d ever owned; a set of robes that managed to survive one of his teenager growth spurts sometime in third year. He hadn’t worn anything so comfy since . . . the clothes shouldn’t even fit him. Maybe he was in some place similar to the Room of Requirement. Harry wished for his wand and . . . it was in his hand! The old one that shared a core with Voldemort’s, which was also the wand he learned magic with so - no point to contemplate, he needed to find the source of that decrepit, pitiful noise.

He found a . . . it looked like a baby whose skin had been scraped off by cheese grater. Several times, since patches of it’s scalp and back and limbs were crusted over in scabs with blooming blood drops around their edges. The soft wailing that distracted Harry were the struggling wheezes it let out with every tortured breath it took.

Harry was caught between the instinct to run as far away as his possibly imaginary limbs could carry him and bending down to assist the heaving creature. Not that he had the first idea of what could be done to help it. He wasn’t Hermione. With mental snarl directed at himself, Harry purged every thought of Hermione out of his head. If wherever he was brought Hermione to him - Harry didn’t need more shit eating at his conscience. He kneeled next to the child, trying to wish for water to clean or bandages, painkillers, _something_. The knowledge necessary to help it would be most useful. He started to reach for it and see if it could speak, though he didn't know how that would help the situation at all.

"Harry, you must not touch it!" said someone who sounded like Dumbledore but _couldn't_ be. Dumbledore was _dead._ Harry had _seen_ it.

He stood up and aimed his wand at the thing with his voice. It also looked like Dumbledore but Harry refused to let himself hope. Dumbledore had died and left him with an impossible mission.

Of course, if it was Dumbledore or anything even remotely as powerful as Dumbledore Harry couldn't really do anything against it. "Dumbledore’s dead," he said and was happy to note his voice didn't waver.

"Yes. I am," the Dumbledore look-alike smiled. Harry ignored the flash of pain Dumbledore's smile gave him, even after wishing he was alive for months and months on end. "Harry, if not Dumbledore, then who or what I am?"

"Some kind of trick by Voldemort," Harry answered and kept his wand aimed at the Dumbledore look-alike.

"Why would Voldemort try to trick you now, Harry?" it asked patiently.

Harry finally lowered his wand. It was a good question. Voldemort no longer had any reason to trick him. Voldemort just wanted him dead. It was likely that he had already died when the last Killing Curse hit him. He looked at the Dumbledore—maybe it _was_ Dumbledore—and walked towards him. "Am I dead too?" he asked as he reached his side.

"I don't think you are, dear boy" he answered.

"But . . ." Harry remembered the child and his protest died in his lips. "There's some kind of creature here. It needs help."

Dumbledore was knowledgeable and powerful enough to aid it. He had to be.

"Harry, that is something beyond our help," Dumbledore said sadly.

Suddenly, there was bitter scream caught in Harry’s throat. Considering how supposedly powerful Dumbledore was, why couldn’t for _once_ , do something useful?

"Why don't you _try_?" Harry demanded. "How do you know for sure you can't help? Have you even tried?"

"Harry," Dumbledore started in a firmer voice than he'd been using so far. "You're championing for what's left of Tom Riddle's soul."

. . . Well, that explained the instinctive fear Harry had been feeling since he'd first seen it. Though he hadn’t admitted it to himself, his legs had been trying to walk in the opposite direction of the thing since he’d first seen it.

"It's likely trying to persuade anyone near to aid it," continued Dumbledore. "Tom Riddle has been using his considerable magical talent to manipulate those around him for a long time. We must not let this last piece of him to control us. Please, move away from him."

It made sense but Harry didn’t give a shit how much sense Dumbledore was making. What did Riddle and his Horcrux bullshit matter when he finally had the man who’d been using him like a hapless pawn his entire life standing in front of him?

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" his voice was getting louder and angrier. Harry tried to walk away from the child—from Voldemort—but something kept him rooted at its side. Why should he do something just because Dumbledore said it was the right thing to do? Blind faith in the old bastard had never brought him anything but grief.

"Harry, the Horcrux linked to your own soul has been destroyed," Harry was very glad (and scared) to hear that. "The last intact piece of Riddle's soul is at your feet. There's nothing we can do for it. We must go."

"And where are we going?" Harry demanded. "Or are you just going to send me on some blind, impossible mission again without any real help? You're supposed to be the most powerful wizard alive! Why didn't you do more to _help_ me?" He inched closer to Voldemort, then kneeled beside the bloody thing when Dumbledore jaw tightened.

"Harry, I gave you the tools I thought you needed to face Riddle at the appropriate time," Dumbledore said kindly but firmly. "I need you to move away from him. Do not let him use your desire to help to further his own ends."

"Right, I should be working to further your ends instead, shouldn't I?" Harry didn't remember ever speaking so disrespectfully to Dumbledore before.

He'd never spoken to him with so much vitriol and angry sarcasm—not even the night Sirius was killed. It filled him with fear and excitement to do so now. He felt his face stretch into a grin even though he'd never in his life felt less like smiling. Dumbledore reached towards him but Harry knew what to do. He fought the urge to vomit and grabbed the child's arm.

* * *

When Harry woke up again, he was not as comfortable as he had been in . . . wherever he'd been with Dumbledore and the Volde—Voldemort!

Harry sat up so quickly his head swam. “Shit,” he breathed, looking around for Dumbledore and checking the floor for the Voldemort. He didn't find either, so he started looking around for any clues as to where Voldemort had sent him to. A forest, it seemed like. Not one as dark and dense as The Forbidden Forest, unless there was a part of with short trees and relatively good visibility.

Solitude gave Harry time to feel the panic and disorientation he'd been holding in since he'd decided to meet Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. Where was he? Had Ron and Hermione managed to kill Nagini and finish off Voldemort? Had he been of any use? Probably not. As a matter of fact, it looked like Voldemort had manipulated him again. A bloodied, weakened, baby-formed Voldemort had done . . . whatever it was he'd done. If there was ever a time to curl into a ball and wait for the world to swallow him whole . . . though knowing his luck, Harry would manage to give Voldemort all his power back, sentencing all his friends to slow and painful deaths. Assuming they were still alive.

Since his Horcrux was gone, Harry had no good reason to lay around waiting for something to finish him off. He looked up and saw bright stars. Harry wished for shoes just to make sure he was in a different place. Nothing appeared. He tried to look around for some signs to help him figured out where Voldemort had sent him.

Trees and a bright moon. Nothing to help him work out exactly where he was.

Unable to think of anything else to do, Harry started walking in a random direction and listened for any sounds.

It didn't take long for Harry to find a large manor. It took him a while, but he recognized the place as Wool's Orphanage—Tom Riddle's childhood home, which wasn't even on the list of places Harry would have expected Voldemort to send him to. It was possible that Voldemort had sent him back here accidentally in his weakened state—Dumbledore _had_ said that it had been what little was left of Voldemort's soul.

With a flash of hope, Harry realized that maybe he wasn't even really here. Maybe the last shred of Voldemort's soul was trying to possess him and Harry was seeing some of his memories as a result. Maybe Dumbledore was trying to free him even as Harry worried about having somehow helped Voldemort.

Harry discarded the idea almost as soon as he thought of it. He'd been in Dumbledore's pensieve enough times to know how it felt to walk around in another person's memories. His skin was too cold, he could smell the leaves too well, he could feel everything that was around him. It was more likely that Voldemort had sent him here because he just wasn't strong enough to directly posses him anymore.

He still didn't know why though. He couldn't see the bloody child anymore so it was unlikely that it was there with him. Harry should probably look for it to make sure it hadn't appeared somewhere nearby, but what would he even do if he ran into it? Set it on fire? Even if he could find Voldemort, he'd probably end up mind controlled and helping him. Again.

Eager to get out of the cold, Harry started walking towards Wool’s Orphanage. He needed to get back to Hogwarts and help Ron and Hermione kill Nagini, then tell them what had just happened but it wasn’t like he could just Apparate at Hogsmeade and stroll towards Hogwarts. He'd be captured or killed by Death Eaters immediately. He needed a plan and quickly, never mind the pounding headache and looming dizziness making him ache for a warm bath and a bed.

Harry frowned as he got closer to the orphanage gate. It was . . . not rusted. Clean, in fact. How the hell was it even there? When he'd come here with Ron and Hermione looking for Horcruxes, they'd found that the place had been demolished and turned into a building for business offices. The place had also been surrounded by other buildings, not by the trees Harry was seeing now.

At least he’d had the good sense to wish for his wand at the strange place with the withered Voldemort. He had to use magic to get rid of the chains keeping the large fence door closed. Just in case, he repaired the gate before continuing on towards the manor. The place should not exists anymore and no matter how much he thought about it, Harry could not think of any reason for Voldemort to . . .recreate it. Voldemort hated anything that reminded him of his Muggle heritage.

The Manor was closed and the lock seemed . . . not new exactly. Well-cared for. Harry used magic to open it as well and readied himself to face whatever was waiting for him inside the manor. He walked in and tried to keep alert in case he needed to run, wincing when his stomach started pulling at him. His whole body would have to shut the fuck up at some point, hopefully until he squirreled somewhere relatively safe.

Once he walked deep enough into the manor he began to hear voices. ". . . shame that the poor girl couldn't live to care for the baby," a woman's voice was saying. "Did she live long enough to tell us about anyone who might be able to care for him?"

"No," answered another woman and Harry paused just outside the room where they speaking. "She told me that she wanted the boy to be called Tom like his father and Marvolo like his grandfather."

What in fucking hell . . .?

"Strange name that one," answered the other woman. "What about a family name?"

"The girl said her name was Merope Riddle. I supposed we should call the boy Tom Marvolo Riddle," mumbled the other woman.

 _No . . ._ thought Harry, leaning back against the wall as all the air in his lungs fled out his mouth. He was in Voldemort’s birthplace. During his birthday.

In a daze, Harry rushed away from the hallway, hurried out of the manor until he was back among the trees, breath gasping out of his mouth as though he was drowning. There was no way. Just no way . . . He Apparated to the entrance to Diagon Alley to keep himself from hyperventilating. Though he might run into Death Eaters . . . hell, running into Death Eaters would be a good thing, considering the alternative. He barged into the pub, fingers gripping his wand though he was getting dizzy and would go down in a fight pathetically quick.

But The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t teeming with Death Eaters. Or at least, it was teeming with Death Eaters merrily drinking away the night and toasting each other with cheerful smiles. Not one of them spared Harry a glance.

"Good morning and happy New Years!" said a cheerful voice when Harry reached the counter. "Can I interest you on some Firewhiskey?"

"I . . ." Harry trailed off and winced. What could he say that wouldn’t make him sound like a lunatic? He shook his head, which only made him want to fall on his face. That white room . . . Voldemort. Had they dipped his head in molasses?

"Are you alright there?" asked the young woman behind the counter in between beaming at other customers.

Harry tried to answer but all that had happened over the last few days was bubbling up to the surface. How could she look so damned happy while the whole world sank into hell? Was he . . . and his friends . . . where they the only ones whose lives Voldemort had shred to bloody pieces?

"Tom! Looks like we got someone who might need some help out here!" yelled the young woman again.

A younger version of Tom, the host of The Leaky Cauldron, walked in from some backroom and gazed at Harry like a kid might look at bug. He put on a salesman smile while inching closer to the server.

Suddenly, Harry had to swallow a hysterical laugh. It was all too much. He leaned against the counter because smothering his giggles was making it more difficult to breathe.

"He doesn't smell like he's drunk," said Tom, without a single hint of caring that The Boy Who Lived had wandered into his pub. Except there was no boy who lived because that hadn’t happened yet. Had it? "Where are your shoes, lad?"

"I didn't think to wish for any," answered Harry. He was beginning to lose focus. Tom's worried, young face was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

* * *

Annie Moreau prided herself on her ability to read people quickly and accurately. It wasn't that she was a Legilimens or anything like it; she was just good at looking at people's faces and noting their facial expressions and reactions. It was very useful skill for someone who worked at a pub, even one as clean and friendly as The Leaky Cauldron was on most days. It’d certainly helped her judge when it was time to cut the Firewhiskey supply for certain patrons during yesterday's New Year's celebration, one of the few times a year when Tom allowed excessive drinking at his generally family-friendly pub.

It was also why Annie noticed something strange about the young man who'd lost consciousness the previous night, even before she noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes. First of all, he was wearing clothes that she'd never seen on a person before, even in the Muggle world. Second, he'd looked disoriented and scared, not drunk and happy. Or even drunk and morose like an odd patron here and there at Cauldron last night.

After the boy lost consciousness and they made sure he wasn’t seriously injured, Annie convinced Tom to let her take him up to the empty employee's room rather than contact St. Mungo's or the Ministry. Tom had only the best of intentions but sometimes people just needed a place to lay low. Tom had been reluctant at first, but he'd relented once Annie assured him she'd take responsibility for the boy.

Yes, he might be some dangerous psychopath . . . or he was a desperate kid running for his life. If it was her - or one of her brothers - Annie would want someone to take a chance and help them. And she was curious too. She had Apparated him the spare room in the living area Tom kept for his assistants in the flat above the Cauldron. Tom warned that he could wake up before her shift was over and be on his merry way with some of her possessions before she ever got ever even talk to him, but in the spirit of New Year’s . . . spirit, Annie was going to take the risk. It was more likely that he' stay and ask for help.

Besides, she had nothing of monetary value in her room.

The kid was sitting on the bed when Annie went back to check on him, staring at the floor like one of the lost souls stumbling around the streets of London too far gone even beg for change. He startled when Annie cleared her throat and fist he had wrapped around his wand and flexed. Annie kept her back to the door and offered him a gentle smile.

"Well, I hope you're feeling better now," she said, trying to keep eye contact.

He was a handsome enough fellow in an ordinary sort of way. His big green eyes—by far his most striking feature—narrowed as he scanned her face.

"Yes, thank you for helping me," he said quickly and stood up to back further into the room. He glanced at his wand and slowly slipped it under his belt.

Annie took the opportunity to sit on the bed. Hopefully, it’d set the stranger at ease if she gave him the impression she felt safe around, never mind she wasn’t sure if she actually did. New Year's was a very busy night and her every inch of her feet that wasn’t numb was tingling with pain. Only curiosity about the boy kept her from drifting off into dream land.

"What's your name?" she asked the boy as she picked up her tired feet to rub them.

"Ha—James," he said, then blushed and looked away almost instantly.

Annie supposed that it was a good sign that he was such an obviously poor liar. "Your name is Ha—James?" she asked without bothering to hide the amusement from her voice.

He blushed again and took another step backwards, fixing his gaze somewhere above Annie’s head. Annie could almost see his brain trying to work out his story.

"No, it's James," he said in a firmer voice. "I was assaulted last night. Some men hexed me and took my stuff."

Annie didn't doubt that something had happened to him the night before, but she doubted it had been anything as simple as that. "Do you want to contact the Ministry?" she asked gently.

"No!" he said quickly, then took a deep breath passed his fingers through his dark hair. "I mean, that won't be necessary. They didn't really take that much. Just my shoes and a handful of Galleons." He smiled in a way he probably thought looked reassuring but it made him looked more pained than anything else because his forehead remained creased with tension.

Annie might be able to coax him into spilling his whole story if she wasn’t about to nod off. She picked herself up and yawned loudly. "Listen," she said while she worked out some of the kinks in her back. "I'm really tired. I'm going to head to my room—it's right next to this one—and sleep. If you're still here when I wake up, I'll see what I can do to help you." Annie finished with a gentle smile and headed towards the door.

"Yes, thank you," James said quickly and nodded. "What's your name?"

Annie had wondered if he’d going to remember to ask. She turned to smile at him. "I'm Annie Moreau. Nice to meet you James," she said before waving and heading to her room.

* * *

After Annie left the room, Harry sat back on the bed and rubbed his face. He wished he’d thought of a way to ask her the date without sounding like his was losing his head and needed to go to St. Mungo's.

With every passing second, it became harder not to think that Voldemort had sent him back to the time of his birth. It just made no sense whatsoever. Last night, there'd been a New Year's celebration going on at the leaky Cauldron and Voldemort had been born during New Year's. He was sure he'd heard the two women at the orphanage talking about Merope—talking about Voldemort. The only explanation that approached anything resembling logic was that the emaciated and bloody piece of Voldemort had sent him back in time by mistake.

Harry supposed that Voldemort's soul had tried to go back to a time when it was intact, if not exactly strong. Maybe sending itself back to the time it was a newborn was an accident. When else was a soul stronger purer than at the time it was born?

Harry had no idea actually. He didn't know the first thing about human souls. And it wasn’t like Hermione was with him. She had probably done a lot of "light reading" about the nature of souls and humanity and life while he and Ron wasted time with pointless games of Exploding Snap. Ron and Hermione . . . It was very probable Harry would never see them again.

He knew next to nothing about time travel, but he very much doubted that anyone was powerful, knowledgeable, or even willing to try and send him back (or forward) decades into the future. He bet not even Dumbledore—Dumbledore!

Dumbledore was still alive!

And he had no idea who Harry was. And if he did, he would start plotting how best to use Harry in some convoluted scheme or another.

No, Harry was on his own. He’d always been on his own but now he was aware of it. And he was in the past, with Voldemort trapped inside a defenseless newborn. For the first time since the graveyard - since his father . . . hell, since his _grandfather_ was born - he might have a chance to win it all.

* * *

"I'm glad to see you've decided to stay for a while," Annie said next morning after finding James lying face up on the guest bed. Though unlikely, she hoped he’d slept at least half as well as she had. "I assume you're hungry?"

"Yes," James rushed uot. "I mean, I wanted to thank you again for helping."

"It was nothing," Annie nodded at him. "Why don't we go down for some food? You can tell me what's happened to you while we eat."

James followed her out of the room and they walked downstairs together. Tom shot Annie a reproachful looked the second he spotted James trailing behind her like an orphaned puppy. She smiled at Tom and asked him to bring them some stew and Butterbeer with a little bow that signaled she was in the middle of getting rid of the unwanted guest. She sat and waited for James to seat across from her.

"Where did you get your trousers?" she asked him. Maybe she was being a little rude, but she figured it was her due. She had been helping him since he'd stumbled into the Cauldron talking nonsense.

"I . . ." James got the same confused look that he'd gotten every time Annie asked him anything. More confused than usual, even. Maybe disorientation was his default expression. "I grew up in a small town farm,” he finally answered. “ We use this material because it's more durable."

Annie doubted that (she had grown up in a farm herself and never seen the type of trousers he was wearing) but she really couldn't think of a way to question him without getting confrontational. Better to pretend she believed most of what he said unless it got _too_ absurd. "You're a Muggleborn, then?" It was always helpful to see how a wizard reacted to a stranger assuming that they were Muggleborn.

"Yes," James hesitated at that question too. He was getting more intriguing the more questions he answered. Annie could think of no reason a wizard would lie about being a Muggleborn. But she could think of many reasons a Muggleborn would lie about being a Pureblood.

"So am I," she said. "I'm from Madagascar. We moved to England when I was young. You should have seen the look on my family's face when I got the letter from Hogwarts. They knew I could do strange things since I was young but the village elder thought I was blessed by the spirits." In her experience, opening up to people was the best way to earn their trust. "I don't remember seeing you at Hogwarts. You don't look that much younger than me."

"My family didn't think I should go," James said without meeting her eyes. He was still speaking slowly and cautiously. Annie hadn't known him long enough to tell if it was just his nature or if he was still thinking of lies on the spot. "I need Muggle papers," he added quietly, almost as if he was speaking to himself.

“. . . Why?” asked Annie, momentarily derailed from questions about why his family wouldn’t let him attend Hogwarts.

While James struggled for an answer, Tom's other helper, old but stout Mrs. Wilkins, brought them generous servings of stew and two cups with Butterbeer. Unlike Annie, Mrs. Wilkins did not live above the Cauldron and she only worked during the days Annie had off. Judging by the suspicious look she shot James, Tom had warned her that Annie was about to pick up another stray.

"I need to go to an orphanage and . . . pick up a baby." James answered once Mrs. Wilkins had shuffled away.

For the first time, Annie was noticing something other than confusion on his face.

"Why?" she asked and for the first time since she'd met didn't bother to soften the question with a smile. She started to eat her own stew while waiting for him to answer.

"It's not like that," he said quickly and raised his hands almost as if to show he was unarmed. "I mean, I need to pick up my . . . nephew. My brother left his wife when he realized she was a witch." James looked down at his food for a second and then looked at her face again. "I suspect - and he does too - that she used a love potion to get him to marry her in the first place . . . Anyway, she died giving birth to a boy and now he's at an orphanage. I need to go get him but the people in charge won't just hand him over to me." He tore his gaze away from Annie and dug into his stew like a man possessed.

Annie considered this story. It was a somewhat hard to believe but she had seen James lie often enough that she could tell when he was telling the truth. Oh, she doubted that he was telling her the _whole_ truth but she didn't doubt that there was a baby he needed to pick up. Still, there were too many holes in his story.

"If you're a Muggleborn, you should have Muggle papers already," she pointed out.

James looked like he was considering what to say to that. It was not a good sign that he needed to think so carefully to answer every question.

"I'm only seventeen," he said between swallowing stew. "The people at the orphanage won't give me the boy because I'm not of age."

"But you _do_ have papers?" Annie insisted.

"No," James admitted.

Annie hadn't really been expecting him to produce any identification. The boy had walked into the Cauldron without shoes.

"My family disowned me when they found out I still use magic. I didn't think to ask for anything when I left."

"Why not just steal the child and Obliviate the Muggles in charge of the orphanage if they find you?" Annie asked him. It was what any other wizard in his position would be planning.

"I'm not too good at it," James answered with a sheepish shrug. "Those Muggles have other children to watch over. I don't want to risk leaving them too stupid to care for them."

Most wizards would be more worried about bungling it up so badly that the Ministry had to get involved. It was the first time Annie had met another wizard who was claiming to be careful with the minds of Muggles. Most wouldn't have stopped to think about the dangers of playing with their minds. As far as she was concerned, it proved that he wasn't thinking of doing anything too heinous.

But she still felt uneasy helping when she wasn't sure of his intentions. "Just answer me honestly," she started and waited for him to swallow his last bit of food. She made sure to stare straight into his eyes. "Why are you determined to get this boy? He's not your son."

James looked taken aback by the question and stopped to think about it for a moment. For the first time, Annie didn't think he was taking time to think of another lie.

"If he's a wizard," he started after a while, "then it’ll be hard for him to grow up with only Muggles. I just want to make sure he's not . . . alone. I just want to do what's right."

James looked uncomfortable and conflicted as he said it but Annie . . . for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger own, she really wanted to help this boy.

"All right," she said finally. "I'll help you get fake Muggle papers. Just let me finish my stew." Her mama would have warned her about being too trusting. It was likely that Tom would later scold Annie for the same thing.

She knew of a place in Knockturn Alley that specialized in forging Muggle documents. Of course, the place was mostly for wizards who needed to carry out long term scams with Muggles and couldn't rely on memory charms alone to do it. She was certain a simple identification and a birth certificate wouldn't cost too much.

"Wait here," Annie said as she finished her meal. She went upstairs and got the jacket her brother Michael had forgotten the last time he'd come to visit her. Hoping that it was warm enough for January, she cast a cleaning charm on it and then fished for an old pair of shoes to Transfigure into something that might fit James before heading back down.

James stood up as soon as she made her way back downstairs. She left money on the table and a generous tip since she'd left the mess for Mrs. Wilkins to clean and motioned for him to follow her after handing Michael's jacket and the shapeless boots. "It's much too cold outside for a simple undershirt," she said.

James took the clothes and quickly put them on. "Thank you," he said. "Thanks for the food too. And for letting me stay in your room."

"It's actually one of Tom's rooms," she corrected.

James nodded and followed her outside.

They continued in silence. Annie wanted to see if James would start a conversation if given the chance. He didn't say a word, not even when they made the turn towards Knockturn Alley, though Annie noted the way his shoulders hunched. Maybe he hadn't thought that she would have acquaintances on the "bad side of town" so to speak, but Annie had learned early about the importance of making friends with people from all walks of life. She briefly wondered if he knew—or had problems with—anyone who frequented the shadier shops located there.

Annie walked inside the enterprising Mr. Johnson's shop (she didn't think that was his actual name) and asked how much for a fake Muggle birth certificate and identification. He often frequented the Cauldron because he liked the way Annie cooked meat-pies.

"I can't actually pay for it right now," James spoke for the first time since they'd left the Cauldron.

Annie looked back at him and smiled. "I'll pay for these. They don't really cost that much," she said. "Just work it out with Mr. Johnson here."

"Thank you," he said again and looked directly at Mr. Johnson for the first time.

"So what name goes on the paper son?" asked Mr. Johnson.

" . . . James Harry Riddle, sir," said James after a while.

Annie still doubted that it was his real name and Mr. Johnson mostly looked amused that someone was calling him sir. After a couple of minutes discussing details, Mr. Johnson produced the documents. Well, he puled out a bunch of blank pages that looked flimsy next around the mess of thick scrolls littering his desk. Annie handed him five Galleons before she and James both said their goodbyes and walked out of the shop. James tried to thank her again but she waved him off.

Annie was still a little uneasy with helping him so the sooner he went on his merry way, the faster she could start forgetting him. Hopefully, her instincts were right and he was a good person. True, he'd been lying and hadn't really talked much, but he seemed grateful and polite enough. She sighed when he Disapparated and purposely put the matter out of her mind. It’d be in poor form to be distracted during one of the odd days she got to spend with her fiance.

That would’ve been the end of it, but next night James wandered to the Leaky Cauldron’s counter with a baby bundled in his arms. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he told Annie just before the baby started wailing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This editing thing is turning out to be a greater endeavor than I first assumed. I made a lot of mistakes about everything. But I guess it wasn't that bad for a first story ever.

Going back to the orphanage almost made Harry hyperventilate and for reasons he couldn’t adequately explain to himself. He’d already been there once without making the universe explode and/or killing himself. And even if Voldemort was about to use his newborn body to . . . do anything, Harry had already come to terms with his imminent death. Though he could no longer guarantee that dying would buy his friends a shot at victory anymore.

After a few tense seconds forcing his fists to unclench, Harry took a deep breath and ducked out from behind the tree he’d been using for cover since Apparating near Wool’s orphanage more than two hours earlier. Absentmindedly, he used a Charm to make the outfit he was wearing more appropriate, hoping that the jacket Annie lent him made him look presentable. He was in no mood to spruce himself up just to get his hands on baby Voldemort.

The gates to the orphanage were open, probably because it was late afternoon instead of late at night. Taking care to keep his head held high and his shoulders confidently relaxed, he made his way towards the building’s front door. He pulled on a contraption that he assumed served as some kind of old-fashioned doorbell and almost jumped at the loud, sharp noise of metal striking against metal.

"Yes, how can I help you?" the young woman who answered the bell asked Harry as she wiped her hands on grey apron. Her voice was similar to one of the women Harry had overheard the previous night.

"Yes," Harry answered. "I'm looking for my sister in law. "Her name is Merope Riddle.”

"Oh," the woman said, looking a little sad. She offered a gentle smile a moved sideways to let Harry into the manor. "Please, come in. "I'll go look for Mrs. Cole. She's in charge of the orphanage. What's your name, sir?"

Harry blinked at the notion that he looked old enough to be called sir. "I'm James Riddle," he said finally, satisfied that the name sounded more natural now.

The girl nodded and asked him to wait inside what looked like a small office.

It wasn't a long time before the girl came back in, followed by a woman Harry faintly recognized as Mrs. Cole. Thin, tall, and harsh were the words that came to Harry’s mind, followed by an odd sense of begrudging respect. Muggle or not, the woman carried her cross with dignity.

"Mr. Riddle," she started without much fuss. "Thank you for coming." She walked behind a medium-sized office table brimming with documents and sat down. "Please, sit," she told Harry, motioning towards one of two chairs before turning towards the girl. "Beth, thank you. Please see to the children while I talk to Mr. Riddle."

Beth left them with a quick nod and Mrs. Cole turned her attention back on Harry. "Mr. Riddle," she started, her voice softening a bit. "I'm sorry to inform you that young Merope passed away last night during childbirth."

That sentence hung in the air for a few seconds before Harry realized that Mrs. Cole was expecting some kind of response.

"Oh," he said quickly and hoped Mrs. Cole was taking his lack of response as a sign of shock. "That's really sad," he added and then berated himself for how stupid he sounded.

"Mr. Riddle," asked Mrs. Cole. "How exactly was Merope related to you?"

"She was married to my brother.” Harry seized the opportunity to explain his lack of reaction at the news of Merope’s death. "They were only married for a short time and I think they had a falling out. I met Merope only once and very briefly."

"I see," said Mrs. Cole, her tone not indicating whether she believed Harry or not. "I'm sorry they won't have a chance to work out their differences."

"You said she died during childbirth?" asked Harry.

Mrs. Cole looked relieved that he brought that up again so quickly. "Yes," she responded. "Thankfully, the child appears to be healthy. It was boy."

Harry nodded, then let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Best case scenario, it was completely normal and the Voldemort from Harry's future hadn't travelled back with him. At the very least, Voldemort was weak enough that he wasn't even attacking Muggles.

"Can I see him?" Harry finally asked Mrs. Cole.

"Of course," she answered. "However, I'll need some form of identification before we proceed."

Harry handed over the fake papers without looking at them, unwilling to repeat the experience of seeing his name (and his father’s name) before Riddle’s. It was worse, somehow, than merely saying it out loud. He gave Annie a silent thanks when Mrs. Cole nodded down at the papers. So far, it looked like he wouldn’t have to risk using magic to extract Voldemort from the orphanage.

“Would you like to see the child?” asked Mrs. Cole after handing him the papers back.

"Yes, thank you," said Harry, resolutely ignoring the way his throat wanted to close up.

"Please follow me," she said as she moved around the table towards the door. She continued to tell him about the baby as Harry followed her up a set of grand stairs. "Like I said before, the infant seems healthy enough despite being somewhat light. He weighs only five pounds, but that's probably because Merope herself was quite thin when she came to us. He breathed right away, which would be unlikely for a baby born too early, so we’re certain that we appropriate nourishment, he’ll grow into a hearty boy."

She might as well be trying to sell me a dog, thought Harry, wondering at his own vague feelings of indignation. The orphanage was undoubtedly underfunded so even if Voldemort wasn’t . . . what he was, Mrs. Cole would be stupid not to seize the opportunity to get rid of an extra charge.

Mrs. Cole turned left towards a corridor when they made it up the stairs. She opened the door to a spacious room filled with cribs and Harry could hear gurgles coming from some of them, but he hoped Voldemort would be quiet throughout the upcoming ordeal. At least until Harry . . They finally stopped in front of a crib near one of the windows, Mrs. Cole nodding at Harry and smiling for the first time since they’d met.

With a thin smile of his own, Harry slowly looked into the crib.

He didn't know what he expected. The same bloody creature at the blank room where he’d met Dumbledore’s . . . spirit? A welcoming green blast from The Killing Curse. The infant to try and possess him immediately?

Nothing remotely like that happened though.

Baby Voldemort looked normal. Or at least, he looked like what Harry assumed a normal newborn looked like. He really hadn't seen that many outside of TV.

Only his tiny face was visible since someone had wrapped his little body in a cotton blanket and his tiny head in a little blue hat. He was reddish-pink, except for a couple of thin veins here and there. His lips were thin and screwed up into what looked like a scowl. If Harry had seen any random person holding it, he’d never would’ve guessed the thing would grow into a psychotic megalomaniac intent on racial purity, immortality, and world domination.

Harry would have probably stayed there waiting for something to happen forever, but the baby chose that moment to open his eyes (brown and utterly, disturbingly ordinary) and let out a surprisingly loud scream for his size. Harry jumped in a way that most have looked very comical to Mrs. Cole. To her credit, she didn't laugh and simply waited for Harry to compose himself.

"He must be hungry," said Mrs. Cole. "I will go downstairs and send Beth with milk. We can speak about his future later tonight." She turned and walked out of the room without another word.

Baby Voldemort continued screaming, making the hairs on the back of Harry’s head stand up. He had the strangest urge to go and . . . do something to get it to stop crying. Plain, dumb mammal instincts or ominous attempts at magical manipulation? Difficult to say.

A few moments after Mrs. Cole left, Harry walked over to Voldemort's crib. The little brat had managed to get his tiny arms out from under his blanket and he was waving them around ineffectually. For one hysterical moment, Harry thought he was going to burst into laughter.

A bunch of other babies soon added their shrill cries to the room. Harry wondered if they were crying because they were also hungry or if Voldemort's screams put them on edge too. It was probably another sign of how much the situation was getting to him, but Harry couldn't help but think that Voldemort was somehow satisfied that he had disturbed the other babies. Maybe he was happy to cause pain the only way he could for now.

After what felt like hours, Beth walked into the room holding a few bottles filled with milk. She looked at Harry and smiled a little sheepishly as she put the bottles in a nearby table. "Sorry," she said, gesturing towards the bottles. "I knew more of them would be crying by the time I got here. Once one of them starts, at least a few of the others take it as a sign they should join in." She grabbed the smallest bottle and walked towards Harry.

Once she got close enough to the crib, she lifted Voldemort and carefully cradled him. It only made him cry harder but the thing quieted almost instantly after she put the bottle to his lips. Harry half-expected her to be incinerated the moment she put the baby back in his crib.

The other babies were still screaming. Beth glanced at them and then pushed baby Voldemort towards Harry. By the amused look on her face, Harry must have looked like he wanted to run away.

"Please," she said. "I need to see to the other children."

Harry figured that he might as well take the risk. He was planning to walk out of the orphanage with Voldemort anyway so he needed to hold him at some point. He raised his arms and waited for Beth to instruct him on what to do.

"Make sure to support his head," Beth was saying as she transferred Voldemort into his arms. "His neck is not strong enough to support his it yet."

Finally, Voldemort was lying in Harry's right arm. He was half-expecting to be possessed right then but he didn't really feel all that different. Voldemort didn’t seem to notice he’d been moved since his feeding had not been interrupted.

"Now just hold the bottle up with your other hand . . . just like that." Beth stepped back and Harry gave her what was probably a panicked look. She smiled at him encouragingly. "You're doing great. I'll go see to the other babies now."

* * *

After all the babies had calmed down, Beth had led Harry back to a small looking kitchen and offered him some food. Eventually, Mrs. Cole had joined them and they'd shared nice meal. Beth left to prepare meals for the other orphans and left Mrs. Cole and Harry to discuss Voldemort’s future. Mrs. Cole had agreed to let Harry take him quite readily.

"We try our best for every child here of course," she had told Harry. "But we can never give children the individualized attention they need." She then offered to let him stay the night and promised to have a care package ready for tomorrow.

Harry accepted her offer and let her lead him to a guest bedroom, much to his own surprise. He’d been planning to abscond from the place as soon as humanly possible. Mrs. Cole left him to his thoughts right away so at least he didn’t have to worry about where he’d spend the night. Baby Voldemort . . . she’d left the brat with Harry and now it laid on his chest, quiet and apparently happy after a second feeding in the kitchen. Harry would put him . . . somewhere else but he was afraid Voldemort would start crying again if disturbed.

He stared at the roof, his breathing even and his heart smooth despite his racing thoughts. He'd come here with some vague outline of a plan. Just convince Mrs. Cole to give him the baby, then take him somewhere secluded and kill him in some way.

They were alone now. In fact, Harry could probably suffocate the thing and then plead innocence - maybe not grief, but certainly shock - and Mrs. Cole would probably believe him. What kind of psychopath murdered a seemingly innocent baby?

Harry stared down at the little head laying just over his chest and bit his lip. Gingerly, he placed a hand over it and began to turn so he could lay the baby on its back. Voldemort didn’t wake. Didn’t even move. Harry stared at it as his hand went for a pillow. It wouldn’t even be able to struggle. Harry wouldn’t even have to look at it since the pillow was large enough to cover its whole body.

The baby opened his eyes and almost made Harry jump out of his skin, then push his head down on the pillow he’d been trying to convince himself to use as a murder weapon. He was shaking like a leaf.

After Merlin only knows how long, Harry managed to look at the baby one more time. It looked up at nothing in particular, his head slightly to the side since his neck wasn’t particularly mobile yet. Harry stared, wondering if it was about to start crying until the baby let out a tiny yawn and fell back asleep.

Harry slid of the bed then pulled his knees to his chest, letting the pillow fall to his side. There was no way he could murder a baby, nevermind if it was Voldemort or not. Ron, Hermione . . . his parents and Sirius . . . He should be able to do it even if he didn’t care about the countless people Voldemort would murder. Hell, Apparate to the middle of the fucking ocean, drop the little monster and then Apparate back to land if he didn’t have the guts to do it properly. Not a very Gryffindor way to go about things, but neither was murdering a baby.

The Gryffindor thing to do would to try and save the baby.

Save the baby from _what_ , though?

Harry had only ever needed to save people from Voldemort. He'd always been the one destroying people left and right. It wasn’t like the orphanage had somehow warped little Tom Riddle into the monster he'd turned into. Obviously, not all orphans turned into raging psychopaths when they grew up. Besides, Dumbledore had seemed to think that the worst thing about Wool's Orphanage had been Tom Riddle himself. After spending some time here, Harry was inclined to agree.

He considered Mrs. Cole's words again. Maybe Riddle was just the type of child who'd need "individualized attention."

What exactly did that even mean? Was he supposed to try and raise Riddle and wait for the first obvious signs of darkness and general evilness and . . . ? And then, what? Take him aside and explain that torturing and killing people was wrong and withhold his favorite snack for a week? Wasn't that something that most people just realized by themselves at some point? Harry didn’t know the first thing about raising a child. Technically, he was still a kid himself.

They'd probably just starve to death before it ever came to that anyway. Harry didn't have a Galleon or pound to his name. After the "care package" Mrs. Cole promised him ran out, he'd have nothing but a wand.

Maybe it was for the best. Harry couldn't kill the baby directly, but he might find that he couldn't even feed him. If Voldemort really was biding his time, then he'd probably make his move if he realized Harry intended to let him starve.

Harry knew he wouldn't give up that easily though. He had been willing to die when he thought it would serve some purpose, but he'd never been suicidal enough to just passively wait for death. He could also see himself dying because of recklessness and even stupidity, but he knew he would die fighting in some way. That also meant he had to take the baby with him even if he didn't have the faintest clue of how to go about raising a child. The least he owed the people of his future was to watch out for Voldemort's probably inevitable descent into power hungry madness.

* * *

 

At least James didn’t wander back into the Cauldron with a newborn in the middle of lunch rush hour. Annie always made it a point to be grateful for every little bone life threw her way.

"I didn't know where else to go," James admitted when Annie walked out from behind the counter.

At least he’s holding the baby correctly, she noted as she motioned towards the stairs. "Go wait for me in the room you slept in yesterday. I'll bring some milk and food during my break."

"Thank you," breathed James, glancing down at the bundle as though it was some kind of bomb. He started walking up the steps slower than Mrs. Wilkins during rainy days, when her joint pain worsened and slowed her down.

Annie would be lying if she said she was happy to see him again, though she was relieved that he apparently hadn't been lying about the baby. She headed back to the counter and sighed, rubbing at the back of her neck before stretching to try and work out the kinks in her spine.

To his credit, he’d looked uncomfortable and embarrassed to be back so soon.

Once again, Annie got carried away helping someone she didn't even know. She sighed again and imagined her mother shaking her head sadly. Annie couldn't just send James on his way now. Not with a newborn she’d bet her wand arm he had no idea how to care for. Most people would still make some sad noises and decide none of that was their problem but . . . No wonder that the Sorting Hat had placed her on Hufflepuff practically a second after it touched her head.

Well, standing around morose and frozen was hardly going to solve the problem. Like her mother always said, one step at a time.

First, the baby needed to be fed and possibly washed. James himself would need food too. That was simple enough. The Cauldron always had leftovers at the end of the day so she knew where to get food for tonight at least.

James would need some kind of job.

There were a lot of Muggles and wizards who owed Annie favors; making lots of friends was probably the only advantage of being the type of person who couldn't turn someone in need away. Normally, she would not be too worried about finding a friend some type of job even though times had been hard since the last great Muggle war.

But James had a baby to take care and Annie’s connections could only get them so far.

If James had been a woman, she would have tried to find him some affluent family who needed help with their own children. Unfortunately, Annie couldn't think of a single one that was both open-minded enough to accept a male nanny and rich enough to afford one who came with his own infant to feed.

Sighing, she decided to worry about the specifics of finding him work after she talked with him more. Maybe James had some specialized skill and getting him work would not be too difficult. She allowed herself to hope that was the case as she finished her shift.

Tom came to relieve her a little earlier than usual. Annie decided to take it as a sign that the spirits wanted her to help James and went back to the kitchen to get milk and food.

"Annie!" called Tom as she made her way upstairs.

Hoping that she wouldn’t have to explain why the barmy boy from New Year’s was still around - and with a blasted baby - Annie turned to face Tom, carefree smile firmly in place.

"I think it's time we hired some more help,” said Tom. “ Mrs. Wilkins is getting on in years. She can't cover as many shifts as she used to, don't you think?"

"Yes!" Annie answered quickly, then ordered herself not to get too excited. The chances that Tom would want to hire James were low. For all she knew, Tom already had someone lined up for the job. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"I was hoping you knew someone," said Tom and smiled goodnaturedly. "You seem to know everyone who passes by this humble pub."

"I'll think of someone," Annie responded and turned with a smile. She still wasn't sure she could get Tom to hire James, but now she could at least ask with minimal embarrassment.

She made her way upstairs; thankful that Tom did not ask her why she was apparently going to go eat in her room. She expected that the baby was hungry and could hear him crying before she made it to the spare room. James was clumsily trying to soothe him by rubbing his belly.

"Has he been crying long?" Annie asked James as she entered the room and set the food on the table next to the bed.

"Not really," answered James and looked up. "Maybe he's only hungry?" he suggested a little hopefully.

"Do you have a bottle?" Annie asked.

James opened the rather large bag he brought with him and pulled out an empty bottle. Annie pulled out her wand and cleaned it, then poured some of the milk she'd brought from downstairs. She handed James the bottle and he took it gratefully. Annie sat next to James and watched as he offered the bottle to the baby. He took it and stopped crying almost immediately.

"He's hungry all the time," said James worriedly.

"How old is he?" asked Annie. Better to start with a simple query rather than bombarding him with questions about what he planned to do right away.

"He was born on New Years," answered James.

"Is that why you were acting so strangely when you got here?" Annie wondered.

"It was part of the reason," James admitted.

"Well," Annie told him, "he's going to be crying for food every couple of hours for a while still. That's normal."

James looked relieved to hear it. Then he probably realized that he'd need to get him milk every couple of hours and his eyes filled with anxiety again.

"What's his name?" Annie asked.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle." Harry’s nose flared as he said, and his face twisted like he’d licked a raw lemon.

"Marvolo?"

"It's on the birth certificate they gave me at the orphanage," said James. "I think it was his grandfather's name from his mother's side." It sounded like the kind of name an old, Pureblood family would like to use. Annie wouldn't be surprised if whatever the problem was stemmed from some kind of stupid blood feud.

"Are you going to take him to his father?" she asked after a little while.

"No!" James said vehemently, almost jumping off the bed before visibly forcing his tense muscles to relax. "I mean, my brother won't take him anyway. I really think Me—his mother used a love potion on him."

"Then why not contact the mother's family?" Annie suggested.

"They won't want anything to do with a half-blood," James told her dejectedly.

Annie had to restrain herself from asking for more details. If the boy's mother came from a prejudiced family, then why had she used a love potion to ensnare a Muggle in the first place? If James was a wizard, why didn't he notice that his brother had been under the influence of magic before he married and impregnated a witch?

Asking too many questions would send him running to the hills, which should be more than enough incentive to turn Annie into an old fishwife. But she’d worry herself into an early grave if James ended up the the street with a two day old brat.

"How old are you, James?" she asked finally.

"I'm seventeen," he answered.

Three years younger than Annie, somehow both older and younger than he seemed. He still looked like a teenager but carried himself like someone who'd been through several decades of hardship.

"What do you plan to with Tom, James?" Annie asked gently.

"I can't just leave him somewhere," he mumbled, almost like he was talking more to himself than anyone else.

He may have admirable intentions, but admirable intentions never fed anyone. Annie would try to convince him to look for a nice family willing to take the boy. A seventeen year old kid who'd never even been to Hogwarts simply did not have the means to provide for him.

"James," she started, trying to keep her voice as diplomatic as possible. "I know you're trying to do what's right, but you don't really have the means to give him a good life—"

"You don't understand what you're saying," he interrupted frantically. "I can't just give him up to anyone willing to take him. I have to make sure he doesn't . . . I just have to be sure he's alright."

Little Tom must have sense the tension coming from James because he gurgled against the bottle and started crying the moment James took it away, which . . . made James roll his eyes. Annie moved forward to soothe the baby when James suddenly got off the fisted his own dark hair in frustration.

It was strange to see James fight so stubbornly for the right to have the boy and then look so reluctant to actually soothe him. Annie supposed that, like most young men, James just didn't feel comfortable showing a more nurturing side.

“I need a job,” mumbled James.

“Have you ever had one?” asked Annie. Either he was used to hard labor (somehow Annie doubted it since he actually looked his age, more or less) or he’d run away from a cold but affluent family and had very little idea of what it took to keep a human stomach full.

“No,” admitted James. “But I’m healthy and I know magic. Potions, and charms, and - I’m not particularly special at any of it but I can do it.”

Annie wondered where a seventeen year old Muggleborn who'd never been to Hogwarts learned to do all that but decided not to ask. She was sure James would lie and she preferred not to call him out on it just yet. They had to focus on getting James gainful employment anyway.

"Tom—" she started to before she realized she needed to clarify, "the owner of the Leaky Cauldron is looking for a new employee."

"That's good," James said quickly. "Do you think he might hire me?"

"I'm not certain," she answered him honestly. "You do have an infant to consider."

"He goes to sleep right after he's fed," James pleaded with her.

"For now," Annie agreed. In fact, the baby was already nodding off in her arms. "But it won't be long before he's strong enough to stay awake longer and then he'll cry because he's bored. Sometimes he'll cry for no apparent reason at all."

"Well," James began in an exasperated tone, "if I don't work he won't get strong enough to cry only because he's bored."

So Harry would rather starve the baby than give him up if feeding him turned out to be impossible. Worrying, to say the least.

"James," she said in a firm voice. "You need to understand that not many people are going to hire a teenager who has to take care of a baby."

"It's Harry," he said. She looked at him and waited for him to explain. "James was my father."

"Why did you lie before?" she asked him.

"Because . . ." he trailed off. "I don't know."

Annie sighed and took the baby out of his blankets. She laid him in the center of the bed. Ja—Harry probably knew exactly why he'd lied but he chose not to tell her.

"Won't he get cold?" Harry asked when she was done and sitting at the edge of the bed.

"No," Annie told him. "If the temperature feels fine to you, it probably feels fine to him. You must never leave a baby wrapped in blankets unattended. Never put him to bed with toys and always lay him face up."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Because he could asphyxiate," she told him. Annie thought that should have been quite obvious.

Harry had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Annie," he looked at her with an earnest expression, "I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me. I honestly don't know how I would’ve gotten the baby without your help. Could you help one more time? Do you think you can help me convince Tom to hire me?"

Annie sighed again. She had been planning to ask Tom to let J-Harry stay since she learned about that he planned to hire someone new. She was fairly certain that J—Harry was a good person, but his unwillingness to explain his situation worried her. Annie looked at little Tom stroked his cheek. She looked at Harry again and smiled at him.

"All right," she said. "I'll go with you to ask Tom for work but I make no promises."

Harry smiled gratefully and Annie tried to smile back reassuringly.

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Tom was very by moved by Harry's apparent determination to save "Tommy" from the horror of being raised in a Muggle orphanage so he agreed to give Harry a week to prove that he could handle the baby and a job at the same time.

Harry could sleep in the spare room and makes meals from any leftovers. He would also be allowed to take as much milk as necessary to keep Riddle well fed. Tom even suggested that Harry wait until after he got settled in before starting his duties and sent an owl for a Mrs. Wilkins so that Annie could help him "make proper arrangements."

It was a lot more than Harry expected to get when he convinced Annie to recommend him as a potential employee to Tom. By the look on her face when Tom practically welcomed him with open arms, Annie had expected that Harry would find himself at the door too. She recovered quickly enough but Harry recognized the look of surprise on her face.

Annie's apparent disbelief did not prevent her from sighing with relief when Tom went left to conclude some business. She disregarded Tom's orders about when exactly Harry should start working a promptly gave him a chore he could carry out without having to let Rid—Tommy out of his sight.

Harry was currently adding sprinkles and sugars to the muffins that would be sold to patrons the next day. Annie had shown him how to use Wingardium Leviosa to evenly spread out the toppings on the muffins. The baby was sleeping soundly on a soft pillow Annie had arranged as best she could in an old basket.

"We'll get something more appropriate tomorrow," she had promised as she headed back to the counter. "Remember not to put him to sleep wrapped in any blankets."

Harry had perversely wondered if he should put him down all wrapped up. It would certainly make his life easier if Riddle . . . ceased to be an issue. He started feeling guilty almost before he finished the thought. It was difficult to mentally separate the Voldemort of the future from the baby he was currently responsible for. He hoped to get it under control soon, or he probably wouldn't be able to make much of an impact on the brat's life.

It was probably best if he stopped thinking about it for a while. The whole situation was so absurd and complex that obsessing too much about the future was likely to make things worse. Harry's obsessive tendencies had already clouded his judgment at least once, when he'd decided that following Malfoy around would be more productive than focusing on learning as much as possible about Riddle's background during his sixth year at Hogwarts. He didn't even have Ron and Hermione to keep him somewhat in check this time around.

He focused on putting the finishing touches on the cupcakes and found it surprisingly soothing to use his magic for such a simple task. When was the last time he used his skills for something even remotely enjoyable? Harry didn't remember. It felt like he'd been fighting Voldemort in an all out war for much longer than a year. He started trying to make colorful patterns in with the sprinkles but didn't have much success.

His mood was lightened regardless. Harry allowed himself to feel hopeful for the first time since he'd grabbed Voldemort's bloody arm while they'd been dead. He was away from the war. Riddle was unexpectedly under his complete control for the first time since . . . ever. He had a chance to prevent Voldemort's rise to power, though Harry admitted that it was a long shot. More importantly, he'd made a friend and he had a place to stay for the next week at least. Strangely, he was probably safer now than he'd been in years.

* * *

 

The next morning, the Mrs. Wilkins Tom mentioned brought an old fashioned baby basket and several tiny jumpers and trousers. She was actually younger than Harry expected her to be. He estimated that she was perhaps a decade older than Mrs. Weasley had been but Tom had implied that she was no longer capable of working as much due to advanced age.

"Thank you for bringing these, Mrs. Wilkins," he said as he inspected her gifts. The basket looked ordinary but its interior felt softer than any bed Harry had ever laid on. He suspected they had been enchanted somehow.

"It's no trouble at all dear," she responded. She looked at baby, who was sleeping soundly in his new baby basket, and smiled so wide the laugh lines at the corners of her lips deepened. "My youngest granddaughter just started Hogwarts this past September. I was happy to hear there'd be a younger resident at the Cauldron from now on. It's very kind of you to take him on.”

He was beginning to feel like a fraud. Annie, Tom, and now Mrs. Wilkins were all helping because they assumed Harry was bravely trying to care for a baby who wasn't even his. He wasn't just lying to them; saying that Harry was getting them involved with someone extremely dangerous was an understatement. For all he knew, the cruel remains of Voldemort's soul were still dormant inside little Tom.

Harry wished he could be honest but he couldn't risk making them think he was unfit to keep Riddle. And he would sound mad if he tried to tell them the truth. He had no choice but to accept their help and be vigilant of the baby. Suddenly, he imagined Moody's wildly exclaiming _"Constant vigilance!_ "

Although, to be fair, that had been Barty Crouch Jr.

Harry was saved from having to make more conversation when Annie walked down the stairs holding a large bag. "We'll be off then Mrs. Wilkins," she smiled brightly at the older woman and motioned for Harry to follow her. Harry move to grab the baby but Mrs. Wilkins waved him off.

"I'll watch him for you until you come back," she said and moved behind the counter and made room for the basket at the center of a table that was usually filled with napkins and disposable eating utensils.

Harry hesitated but Mrs. Wilkins reassured him that she'd been caring for children for longer than he'd been alive. He wasn't actually worried that she didn't know how to care for him; he was just reluctant to let Riddle out of his sight.

"Come on," called Annie from the door that led to Diagon Alley.

Riddle had stayed alone with Mrs. Cole and Beth for a whole day and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Besides, there was no way Harry would able get anything done if he couldn’t leave the boy with other people while he worked. He smiled at Mrs. Wilkins and rushed to follow Annie.

"I'm going to show you around some of the shops Tom does business with today," Annie told him when they made it outside. "Part of your job will be to run errands whenever Tom can't make payments or pick up materials personally."

Harry nodded and looked around Diagon Alley for the first time since he'd been transported back in time. It looked very similar to how it had looked back in his future prior to Voldemort's return, although some shops were missing and other looked unfamiliar. In contrast, the Muggle world left Harry with a feeling of vertigo. The different clothing styles had been the tip of the iceberg.

"Had you been to Diagon Alley before yesterday?" she asked Harry.

"Yes," he answered. "But I only know the most famous locations. Gringotts, Mr. Ollivander's shop . . ." he trailed off.

Annie nodded at him. "You'll need to familiarize yourself with everything," she told him. "Tom mostly does business with the candy and spices shops and needs to constantly restock our supplies of disposable cutlery. We also have to consider cleaning supplies and overall repairs of the pub itself."

It was possible that he'd learn how to run a business if he stayed with Annie and Tom long enough. "How long have you been working at the Cauldron," Harry asked Annie.

"Since I graduated Hogwarts," she answered. "Tom's last assistant suddenly quit on him. He decided to get a job with Muggles since he was marrying a Muggle girl."

Harry considered this as he followed Annie. He'd never heard of a wizard deciding to live among Muggles and always assumed that it was the other way around: children of Muggles got their Hogwarts letters and joined the Wizarding World. It was certainly what he'd been wanting since the day he found out he was a wizard.

"This is Ariella's Shop for Gourmet Cooks,” said Annie as they passed through a narrow door between two clothes stores. “We buy spices, sugars, oils, dried fruits and vegetables here."

Harry looked around. The place had been enchanted to be bigger on the inside than looked possible from the outside but even with the extra room, it shelves were still taller than Harry and brimming with different products. He noticed basil, cilantro, peppers, and tomatoes as Annie looked for supplies she'd written down on a piece of parchment. All the different herbs assaulted Harry’s nose, making him sneeze like a child forced to inhale pollen.

Farther into the store, the shelves were lined with Potions ingredients like African Sea Salt, Flitterbloom, newt eyes, and Moonseeds. There was even some Gillyweed in one of the high shelves and Harry wondered who would put the foul stuff in their food.

"There are some ingredients we go through slowly so we don't need to buy in bulk," Annie told Harry as she walked towards the counter. "Others we go through like water. Like pixie dust. Children love the way it makes their drinks and desserts sparkle. We a weekly standing order for the stuff."

Harry nodded and looked that the advertisements lining the wall behind the counter. "Order Dragon's Blood, Now for the Small Price of 200 Galleons a Vial!" one of them suggested. Annie rang the bell in the counter a tall witch with large spectacles emerged from a back room.

Annie introduced them and paid for the ingredients she’d already gathered. Harry gathered all the stuff into bags while they chattered, noting that Annie’s voice had a different tilt when she was talking business. Sweeter, somehow. Harry liked it better when she talked to him, kind but mercilessly direct.

"Why did you decide to work at the Cauldron?" Harry asked when they were outside.

Annie looked at him with exasperation and amusement at the same time. "Because Tom hired me. Next, we restock cleaning supplies."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry spent his whole life going to restaurants without ever thinking about the food on his plate got to the table but he'd assumed the whole process was as simple as buying the things from other, larger shops. It took less than two days of following Annie around to dissuade Harry of that notion. Keeping the Leaky Cauldron from imploding on itself took near obsessive attention to detail and the ability to predict and prepare for anything that went wrong.

"We have to keep track of everything," Annie was telling him. She pointed at the largest of the walls in the backroom which was covered from floor to ceiling by chart with all the beverages and meals served at the Cauldron. It’d been charmed to keep track of all standing orders and the time they had been made. And whether or not they’d been paid for. "No matter how hard we try, there'll be days we won't break even. Those days must be outnumbered by the days we make significant profit or the pub will go out of business."

"But it's the _Leaky Cauldron_ ," Harry protested. He was organizing the sugars and seasonings they'd gotten earlier and noting which were beginning to run low, which Annie told him had to be done every day. He wondered why the giant chart didn't keep track of that as well. "How can it run out of business?"

Annie looked at him as if he had asked how people knew how to breathe. "For starters," she somehow managed to sound both like Hermione at her most supercilious and Mrs. Weasley at her most irritated. "We could stop anticipating which meals drinks sell the most at different rush hours. Then we wouldn't be able to prepare for said rush hours." She began to organize several pots along the largest table. "Then we would take too long to get customers their orders." She started levitate ingredients in front of the pots. "Then customers would stop coming to the Leaky Cauldron and start going to any of several competitors." She started charming knives, and large spoons to prepare what Harry guessed were different types of stew.

"Alright, stupid question," Harry agreed sheepishly and marked Moonbeam Flower seeds as one of the spices they needed to restock.

"We also need this chart to know what to buy when restocking," she pointed out.

Restocking itself was also extremely complicated. They'd gone to six shops after they left Ariella's. Everything at the Cauldron had to be in good, if not perfect, working condition at all times. Harry had always assumed the worst part would be having enough food reserves. He'd neglected to consider how hard it was to keep a place where literally hundreds of people ate every day clean. Even with magic, the task was daunting.

"The first rush hour starts around seven and ends around nine-thirty in the morning," Annie told him as she supervised the enchanted cookware. "Finite," she pointed at the knives and spoons working with the smallest of pots. "We wake up at five to start preparing. We make bacon, eggs, fish, toast, beans, tomatoes, and potatoes. It's the middle of winter, so we also have to make plenty of different blends of hot chocolate and hot tea. I'll show you the parchments outlining the charms we use and the order to use them in later tonight."

Harry stubbornly kept his complaint about having homework to himself and moved on to organizing the drawers with that held the different sugars.

"We take a break sometime after ten," Annie continued. "Then we start preparing for the lunch rush hour. It's usually less intense than the breakfast rush since most people prefer to eat large meals in the morning and skip lunch. We have to organize all the ingredients we'll need to make sandwiches for people. Again, since it's winter we'll need to start several blends of hot Butterbeer. Finally, there's the people who come to have their lunchtime Firewhiskey."

Annie wrapped up the last of the pots and started to set them on a large stove. Harry moved on to note the status of their cereal supply.

"Bless functioning alcoholics," Annie was saying with some fondness. "Sometimes, I think they're the ones who really keep us in business."

Harry snorted to himself.

"At about three or so, we take another break," Annie said and began to adjust the strength of the fires cooking the stews in the different pots. "Then we start getting ready for the dinner rush hour. Mostly stews and Firewhiskey for winters. That's what I'm doing just now." She spread her hands around and smiled at Harry.

"I'm supposed to learn all of this in a week?" asked Harry in an anxiously.

"No," said Annie with a chuckle. "You're supposed to prove you're not incompetent in a week. All of this will take you months—maybe more than a year—to learn."

"Is that how long it took you?" Harry asked.

"I'm still learning," Annie said. "I bet even Tom's still learning." Harry walked over and handed her the list he'd been working on.

"Good," Annie said after inspecting it. "Tomorrow, I'll take you to the Muggle supply stores we Tom does business with."

"Tom does business with Muggles?" Harry had never considered such a thing.

"You were with me today at Diagon Alley," Annie said. "Did you see any place that looked like a supply store?"

"No," Harry answered. "But I figured the suppliers were just bigger on the inside."

"Those kinds of charms can only get you so far," she pointed out. "It would take an immense amount of power to create the kinds of spaces needed to grow food on a large scale. The Wizarding World could not have those kinds of large scale farms and keep them hidden from Muggles. We have no choice but to trade with them."

"Why not just run the farms without magic?" The Muggles seemed to manage it.

"Can you think of any wizard who'd be willing to have a career where they could not use magic?" Annie snorted. She started organizing the disposable plates and cutlery that would be needed for the evening shift and motioned for Harry to help her.

Harry certainly would not consider it for himself. Still, there was something unsettling about the notion that wizards needed Muggles to have large supplies of food. He couldn't quite conceptualize what bothered him about it, but he didn't think he had any subconscious hatred towards Muggles despite the abuse he'd suffered at the hands of the Dursleys.

"Are we going to use magic to trick the Muggles?" he asked Annie after a couple of minutes of silence.

"No," Annie reassured him. "Confounding Charms tend to leave victims stupid, especially when used over long periods of time. We need these Muggles to remain intelligent enough to operate large businesses. If anything, they're more likely to try and trick wizards who do business with. Of course they don't actually know they're trading with wizards."

"How do these Muggles trick wizards?" Harry asked in a baffled tone.

"Because most wizards don't really bother to learn much about Muggle currency or the Muggle economy," Annie told him with a look of disgust. "One of the reasons Tom hired me is that I know enough about Muggles to not be easily swindled by Muggle merchants."

Harry processed that information as they finished organizing for the evening shift. He supposed there had to be a reason that wizards were the ones in hiding while Muggles ruled the world. He had to learn to stop assuming wizards always had the upper hand.

"I better go find Mrs. Wilkins," he told Annie when it looked like they were mostly done with preparations. "I should check on R—Tommy before it gets too busy."

* * *

By the end of his first week, Harry felt like he’d mastered all housecleaning spells ever invented. He was unsurprised but relieved when Tom informed him that he could stay as his second assistant. Though he couldn't do much without Annie's supervision, he still lightened her workload considerably. Even if he didn’t have Tommy to consider, Harry would’ve tried his best at the job out of sheer gratitude at how she’d helped him so far.

But he still despised his job.

Keeping the Cauldron from collapsing on itself was both incredibly difficult and immensely tedious. The monotony of the cycle of preparing for rush hours and then preparing to restock was never ending. The pay was pitiful; not that he had much free time to spend the money he earned anyway.

Tom conveniently arranged it so that his shifts landed during the lulls in between rush hours and left Annie and Harry to deal with the high traffic hours. Even though the man was always cheerful and polite, Harry couldn't help but feel some resentment at his unfair scheduling practices. He wondered how Annie had managed shifts without Mrs. Wilkins before he'd come along.

It would’ve been easier to ignore those aspects of the job if the majority of clients weren't infuriating. Since Harry had always made sure to be polite and respectful to his servers, he'd mistakenly assumed that everyone else would be as well.

What a sweet, innocent soul he’d been . . .

Customers were impatient, rude, and often acted like they were superior to people whose job was "merely" to get them food. He had to deal with people who could not handle having to wait more than ten minutes to be served, people who did not know what they wanted to order (even though they'd been waiting in line for several minutes), people who constantly complained that something was "a little bit off" with their food, and people who mysteriously found something wrong with their half-eaten meals and then demanded a free order or a refund.

"Sir," Harry said exasperatedly to a pompous older client who'd been looking down his nose at him at him since he'd walked up to him at counter. "I can see the hair at the bottom of your stew, but it's blond. There're no blond people working here."

"Are you _implying_ something, boy?" asked the man haughtily and had the gall to sweep his blood hair behind his ear.

Harry was about to respond with a scathing remark when he felt the coin he'd enchanted to vibrate when Tommy cried vibrating in his pocket. He settled for giving the customer a flat look and tapped the sign at the front of the counter with his wand. The words switched from "How can I help you?" to "Please, wait a couple of minutes."

"Annie!" he yelled towards the backroom. "I have to go check on the baby!" He spared a few seconds to feel guilty about leaving her with a customer who was probably irate by now and set off towards his room.

When he got there, he offered Tommy a bottle but it only made him scream louder. Harry checked his diaper and found it clean, a stray, resentful thought about having to _literally_ handle Voldemort’s shit flitting through his mind. He sighed and stared down at the basket while the brat screamed himself silly. By now, Tommy was probably strong enough to want all that attention Annie had warned him about.

The brat stopped crying immediately when Harry picked him but started again the moment he tried to put him down again. Harry started pacing with the baby on his shoulder and tried to keep his temper under control. Finally, he grabbed the baby basket and headed downstairs.

"Why would you bring him down _here?_ " Annie asked when he was back at the counter, probably miffed because she'd had to deal with Harry's obnoxious customer.

"He wouldn't stop crying," Harry answered and transfigured the basket to so it stood an angle. Hopefully, Tommy would be satisfied with being put down as long as he didn't have to look at the ceiling. He arranged the basket in one of the tables behind the counter.

Annie grabbed him and turned away from the customers. "What do you think will happen when he _poops?_ " she whispered harshly. "Think the smell will increase people's appetite?"

"I can't just _leave_ him," Harry protested. "He's only three weeks old!"

Annie looked like she was about to protest but the next customer in line tapped the counter bell and raised her eyebrows impatiently when Harry and Annie turned to look at her.

"Give us a second!" Harry told her and continued to speak quietly with Annie. "Listen," he said. "I'll take responsibility if Tom gets angry about it later."

Annie looked like she was about to protest more but then shrugged and headed back to the kitchen.

Things with Annie had been a little awkward since Harry realized Tom was paying him ten Galleons more than he was paying her. Harry had assumed Annie was his boss since his job was basically to follow her around and do whatever she told him to. He hadn't been able to explain to himself why he was being paid more, especially since Annie had been working at the Cauldron for three years already. It was obvious that she was amazingly dedicated to running the place as best she could.

"Why do you pay me more than Annie?" he'd asked Tom outright and without thinking. Tom had gone red in the face and blustered that Harry needed more money because of Tommy. Annie had dragged Harry out of the room before he could ask any more questions.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she'd asked him once they were down the hall.

Harry had been about to launch into a diatribe about how she worked harder than him and for longer before he realized that it was 1927 and Annie was a Black woman. Tom might not care much about the Black woman part (though what did he know, in all honesty) . . . but Annie was a Muggleborn. His face probably got as red as Tom's had been when they'd left the room. Annie had sighed and thrown her hands in the air than walked away from him. He'd tried to apologize later but Annie had just waved him off.

Things hadn't gone back to normal though. Now that Harry was aware of the problem, he couldn't help but notice just how differently people treated Annie. Customers were more likely to complain about her service even though Harry was the one who often let out snarky comments. Even Tom, who was always polite to her, thought it was right to pay her a pittance for her work.

The difference was even more pronounced when they had to go to the Muggle world. Muggles didn't even bother to hide their derision behind a polite mask. Harry had assumed that Annie changed her brightly-colored robes and head-scarves into plain, brown clothes when leaving the Wizarding world to avoid drawing attention to herself and it was true enough, but not for the reasons Harry had been thinking of.

The Muggle merchants were incredibly rude to Annie and seemed to relish in calling her Harry's servant no matter how often he corrected them. Random Muggles weren't much better. Once, Harry and Annie had been reviewing a receipt and standing close to each other when an older Muggle woman had actually warned Harry about "associating with the likes of her."

The whole thing made Harry deeply uncomfortable, but he'd decided to follow Annie's lead and pretend none of it was out of the ordinary. He supposed it wasn't.

For the time being, the new arrangement with the baby basket mollified Tommy, but it gave customers something else to annoy Harry with. During the last three weeks, Tommy's skull seemed to lose its weird shape and his skin turned a healthy shade of pink. Mrs. Wilkins had proclaimed him the most adorable baby ever and doted on him like he was her grandson. A significant number of customers agreed with her assessment. They insisted on asking Harry about the baby before ordering and sighed with sympathy when Harry explained that he was an orphan under his care.

Objectively, Harry admitted it made sense. Tom Riddle had been exceedingly attractive prior to his awful experiments with Dark Magic. He still couldn’t divorce the adorable baby under his care from a serpentine mad man hurling Cruciatus Curses around at the slightest provocation.

When an old couple actually offered to take him, Harry decided to just tell people that Tommy was his son. It reduced the number of questions he had to answer at least. The only upside was that tips increased considerably so Tom ended up praising Harry for his supposed ingenuity rather than forbidding him from bringing Tommy to work. Annie looked relieved. Harry merely added "arranging Tommy somewhere behind the counter during shifts" to his routine.

His life continued with very little changes for several weeks. He spent his hours at work doing whatever Annie told him to do and his free time trying to keep Tommy entertained. Most of the time, getting him to stop crying involved changing his position or taking him on walks around Diagon Alley. When all else failed, Harry shot little lights out of his wand for Tommy to try to catch.

He swore that Tommy was refusing to spend more than three hours at a time without demanding his attention in order to drive Harry insane. He had no idea how he managed to work since he probably got three to four hours of sleep a night. At least he only had to bathe Tommy every three days or so. The brat had a screamed for at least an hour every time he was near water.

It was probably safe to call the first step in preventing Riddle's descent to unbelievable megalomania a tentative success. Annie assured Harry that Tommy was a normal baby. She went as far as to call him even tempered. Apparently getting Tommy to stop crying was unusually easy most of the time; a notion that made Harry doubt that he'd ever have children of his own even if the opportunity presented itself.

Still, Harry couldn't help but worry that he was living through the calm before a rather long storm. It was true that Tommy didn't cause that much trouble, but he was only a baby. What would Harry do when Tommy learned how to speak?

* * *

 

Having Harry around was a double-edged sword.

Annie had to admit that he worked hard and with minimal complaints despite his rather obvious hatred for the job. A part of her was still expecting Harry to rebel and scream that it wasn't right that he had to follow orders from a woman—especially a Black woman. It hadn't happened though. Harry seemed to readily accept that she knew what she was doing and that he couldn't hope to do his job without her. She'd assumed he was unusually mature and knew when to let someone more experienced than him take the lead regardless of the person's background. Then he'd gone and asked Tom why he was making more money than her.

Annie had been insulted and angry when Tom decided that Harry's starting salary would be higher than the salary she had after working for him for three years. She'd wanted to complain, but decided against it because she didn't want to risk losing her job. A job she was still thanking every God in heaven and demon Hell for every day of her life. With the trouncing the Muggle economy took after the Great War, there was no way she’d find a well paying job outside the Wizarding World. And finding work in the Wizarding World itself without having connections or exceptional magical talent was next to impossible.

Annie was a good witch, but she'd never been powerful enough or academically inclined enough to cause waves. She made friends, but that was because she had a reputation for being easygoing and cheerful. She wasn't in the same position as Harry, who could afford to bring a baby to work and talk back to annoying customers.

She didn't exactly resent Harry his luck. Annie was glad that Tom let him work and take care of the baby at the same time. She was privately amused whenever he chased away a particularly annoying customer with a sarcastic remark. But she was a little envious that he got to be sarcastic and moody when she had to be perfect and cheerful all the time. It was probably why she’d been cold towards him for a while. She had no leg to stand on that front, at least.

Annie sighed and tried to put work out of her mind. It was one of her rare day offs, and she already visited her family. There was no reason to spend her rare few hours with her fiance thinking about work and other things she couldn’t hope to change.

Almost as though he was reading her mind, Owen rolled over in the bed and put his arm around her. "What're you thinking about?" he murmured sleepily.

"Harry," she answered honestly and Owen chuckled.

"Someone less confident than myself would be insulted that you're thinking of another man now," he said in an amused tone.

She turned around and playfully flicked his nose. "He's hardly a man," she corrected. "He shouldn't even be done with Hogwarts."

"What exactly were you thinking?" he asked more seriously.

"I can't figure him out," Annie answered got up from the bed. "He's like a walking contradiction." She said and started looking for her clothes. "We should probably go out for lunch and then go out for some fun."

Owen nodded and then stood up and started looking for his clothes as well. "How's he a contradiction?" he asked.

"For starters, he works like he's used to hard labor but treats money like he's never had to worry about it," Annie started. "And he says he's never been to Hogwarts but seems to know as much magic as I do."

"Is his knowing magic without going to school really that rare?" Owen was a Muggle and he'd mostly thought himself all he knew since he was too poor to go to school when he was growing up.

"It's unheard off," Annie told him. "Magic is not like reading or numbers. It's dangerous to try and learn without guidance from someone who already knows it. I'd go as far as saying it's not possible. But he also says he's a Muggleborn so who taught him?"

"Maybe he's some kind of magic prodigy?" Owen suggested as they made their way out of his small, rented room.

"Oh, that's definitely not it," Annie dismissed.

"Maybe he is and he's just hiding it," Owen insisted.

"He's an awful liar," Annie contradicted. "It's like he doesn't realize what his face does when he's feeling any emotion."

"He's been around for a couple months already, right?" Owen asked as he opened a door for her.

"Thank you," Annie said as she walked through the door. "There are subtler things are just off about him," she fretted.

"Annie," Owen was beginning to sound worried. "Is there something about him that _scares_ you?"

"He makes me uneasy," she answered. "But not for the reasons you're thinking. It's just . . ." she trailed off. There was something about Harry that made him stand out and it irked her she couldn’t figure out what, exactly.

Owen did not look reassured. She grabbed his arm and led him to a secluded alley. Once she was certain no one was around, she Apparated them to another alley close to the Cauldron.

Owen doubled over and gagged so hard his large frame shook. "Jesus Christ, Annie," he cried. "I thought I told you to warn me before you did that!"

"I'm sorry!" Annie said and walked over to check on him. She thought she had been obvious about what she planned to do. "I could go get you a Calming Draught."

"No," Owen said and leaned on her a little. "I just need a few moments. Why are we here?"

"I'm going to get Harry," she answered. "I need you to see if there's something strange about him or if I'm being paranoid just because he's quiet."

"How can you be sure he'll just come with you?" he asked her.

"Because he almost always does whatever I tell him to," Annie told him in an urgent tone. "It's strange!"

"Alright, alright," Owen said, rubbing his eyes. "Go get him."

* * *

 

Owen Williams first met Annie Moreau inside a street fighting ring on the day her younger brother Michael decided to become a boxer.

Owen still didn't know what Michael's plan had been. The boy stood at 1.7 meters and weighed about eleven stones soaking wet. Owen (1.9 meters and about 16 stones) had been selected as his first opponent. He'd planned to slap the kid round a little and sent him home with his tail between his legs but his sister had shown up before the fight started.

Annie had pushed her way to the ring into the ring and started yelling at her brother like - and Owen had no idea such things were real at the time - a dragon. When Owen tried to interfere, she'd shot him a dirty look and almost reduced him to tears of terror.

Much later, Owen learned that Annie had been so enraged that she'd used non-verbal magic to scare him into submission. Owen originally sought her out because he'd needed to know what about her had terrified him so much. He hadn't felt that panicked since the time his family's old shack had burned down when he was child.

What Owen loved most about Annie was her ability to help anyone who crossed her path. She was the only person Owen knew who was truly capable of helping people she did not know even when she had no discernible reason to do it. Unfortunately, Annie sometimes got carried away helping people who didn't deserve it.

Owen was very interested in meeting Harry. Annie had been talking about how strange he was since she'd first met him. He knew Annie could take care of herself. He also knew that if she ever ran into a problem involving magic, he probably wouldn't be able to help her much. It didn’t affect his determination to protect her one bit.

The infamous Harry turned out to be a lanky kid with glasses who tended to scan his surroundings like a predator at least three times per minute. He didn’t say much when Annie introduced them. Annie was just noticing the fog of anxiety that clung to him like a disease. Despite being worldly - at least when compared to Owen - Annie was a family girl. She didn’t have the eye for street survivors like Owen did.

"We're to go see Mr. Albright about buying from whiskey from his brewing company," Annie said during the moments of awkward silence following their abrupt introduction. "Owen's family used to brew alcohol on smaller scale. He'll be able to judge his product's quality better than us. And he can stand around and look intimidating."

Owen nodded, mostly to himself since a little piece of Harry’s puzzle fell into place. Annie avoided work on her days off. She had probably suggested going on a work errand to get Harry to come with her. So he only did what Annie told him to when it came to work.

"Are we Apparating or going by train?" Harry asked quietly.

"Train," Owen said quickly.

Owen tried to engage Harry in conversation on their way to the secluded distillery located at the edge of London, which made him feel like a hounding police officer about ten minutes into the trip. Harry kept his answer short and vague. He wasn't exactly impolite and he even made an effort to ask Owen some questions as well but it was obvious that he was trying to remain distant.

"Was learning magic hard for you?" Owen asked him since it was one of the things Annie was most curious about.

"Sometimes," Harry answered but didn't elaborate.

"How did you learn without going to Hogwarts?" asked Annie.

" . . . I had a friend who was a Muggleborn too," said Harry after a little while. "She loaned me her books during the Holidays and summer breaks."

Owen could tell that Annie didn't believe him because she lifted her chin a little and bit her lower lip. She often did it when she was losing patience.

"Annie says you know as much magic as she does," interjected Owen. "You must be really talented if you taught yourself so much just from books."

"I'm sure Annie knows more than I do . . ." Harry responded, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Does your family own a brewery?" he asked in a rather transparent attempt to change the topic.

"No." Owen laughed. "My father used to work on a small one in Durham. He used to take me to work sometimes. It's gone out of business by now. What about your family, Harry?"

" . . . They used to work in a factory in London," he said after a few seconds.

"You told me your family ran a farm the day after I met you," Annie reminded him and bit her lower lip again.

Harry frowned. "Uh . . ."

Owen understood why Annie insisted he was a terrible liar. It was like watching a child trying to explain why the desert was missing to his mother.

"It ran out of business,” Harry continued. “Listen, I don't want to be rude, but I really don't like to talk about myself. So, can we not? Please?"

Annie looked like she wanted to protest, but she looked away at the last moment.

The conversation did not continue after that. Annie was obviously angry and Harry was obviously uncomfortable. By that point, he probably understood that Annie did not believe anything he said.

For his part, Owen was no longer worried that Harry would directly hurt Annie. He was more concerned that Harry would drag her into whatever situation he was running from. And it was pretty clear he was running from something. Someone, most likely.

Though why anyone would hide at The Leaky Cauldron was mystery. From what Annie had told Owen, it was the most famous pub in England for magic people. Unless he was hiding from non magic people. But then why didn’t he use one of those horrifying memory spells Owen tried not to think about too much?

No wonder Annie called him a contradiction. He must be driving her insane. Annie was used to reading people quickly and accurately.

By the time they arrived at the last train stop, the sun was about to set. Owen almost considered asking Annie and Harry to do their disappearing trick as they started walking towards Mr. Albright's brewery. They probably were not used to walking to places. Besides, he'd been planning to spend more time with Annie before she had to go back to work.

They got to brewery before Owen worked up the nerve to suggest that apparition trick. God, how he hated to feel that bit of magic.

Mr. Albright, a stout man with wide shoulders and blond hair turning white that the temple, had apparently been waiting for them. He seemed happy enough to be seeing Harry, at least, but mostly ignored Annie and Owen. Harry's apparent apathy just seemed to make the man more eager to enter into business with him, which Owen found somewhat amusing. Albright even offered Harry a quick snack, which Owen was quick to accept only because he guessed - from what Annie had said about the kid - that Harry would insist that Annie and him also sit at the table.

Owen could now say he’d sat a white business owner’s family table for a tea and biscuits.

Mrs. Albright tried to engage Harry in cheerful conversation, but she was even less successful than Owen had been. Finally, Mrs. Albright retired to put her two young girls to bed and left Mr. Albright to negotiate a contract with Harry. The man kept trying to bargain, but Harry refused to agree to pay more than the rate Owen knew Annie had set with him prior to the meeting.

"I told you that my superiors won't agree to that price," Harry was saying for the fifth time.

Owen was a little surprised to see how he behaved towards Mr. Albright. It was almost like the shy and anxious boy he'd spoken to earlier in the day had been replaced by a haughty young businessman. No matter how amusing it was to see Albright sputter and turn red, it was a little disturbing to see Harry acting so . . . cold.

"Then I'm afraid we won't be able to do business, Mr. Riddle," said Mr. Albright.

"Alright then," said Harry and stood up. Annie and Owen followed his lead.

"Wait!" exclaimed Mr. Albright quickly. "Why don't take a tour of the brewery? I hope you'll tell your superiors to reconsider once you see the quality of our product."

Harry looked at Annie and agreed when she nodded at him.

They made their way to Mr. Albright's brewery, which was located about one kilometer behind his home. It was considerably large building, with different areas for every step of the brewing process.

The first area was set aside for crushing the initial ingredients and adding the necessary amounts of sugars. The second room was for storing the initial mixture at the right temperature. The entire place seemed to boil and the cloying scent of beers and wine were making Owen feel a little light headed.

Mr. Albright was proudly showing off his modern brewing chambers when Owen heard a loud bang coming from his left.

He grabbed Annie's arm and pulled her behind him and looked to make sure Harry and Mr. Albright were not injured. Mr. Albright looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

Harry . . . Harry had pulled out his wand by the time Owen looked at him.

Owen looked towards his left and saw three men in long, black coats work their way past the mess left behind by the explosion. They had blasted through one of the outer walls of the building and were using their wands to levitate large chunks of concrete out of their way.

Annie moved from behind him and also pulled out her wand when she saw the three strange wizards.

Harry pointed his wand to Mr. Albright and said something under his breath. Mr. Albright's eyes rolled to the back of his head. Harry grabbed his collar to slow his fall and then disappeared from the room. Before Owen could get angry at his apparent abandonment, Harry reappeared again. Mr. Albright wasn't with him.

"Who are you?" he asked the three newcomers.

"We are harbingers of the new Wizarding Empire," answered the man in the middle imperiously.

"What?" asked Annie incredulously.

Owen simply tried to calm his burgeoning fear. As far as he knew, neither Annie nor Harry were fighters and he very much doubted that he could defend them in a fight against people who had magical powers. He would try anyway. Hopefully, he could buy Annie enough time to escape.

"Silence!" shouted the one in the left. "You hinder the advancement of the people of Merlin by doing business with our oppressors!"

"What do you want?" asked Harry finally in a baffled tone.

Owen was happy to see that he wasn't breaking down anymore than Annie was.

"To make you pay for your betrayal," said the last man and pointed his wand at Harry.

Before he could even finish his spell Harry shouted " _Protego_!" and a bright light began to cloak him. A red light from the strange wizard's wand bounced right off of it.

They started to move towards them at the same time.

Once they got close enough to a brewing chamber, Annie pointed at it and shouted " _Reducto_!" The chamber's wall exploded and one of the strange men was hit by the hot fluid stored inside of it. The other two realized that their targets could defend themselves and ran behind another one of the chambers.

"Come on," Harry shouted and motioned for Annie and Owen to follow him. They dived behind the brewing chamber Mr. Albright had been showing them before the explosion.

"What do we do?" Owen asked the other two. They were the ones with magical powers.

"Annie, do you know how to duel?" asked Harry.

"Where and why would I have learned to duel?" she responded angrily.

"We need to keep moving," Owen said. "Maybe we can draw their attention away from here."

"It's getting dark out," Harry said. "We should be able to use the brewing chambers for cover and take them by surprise."

Owen heard one of the men's strangely magnified voices. "Come out and face us, you filthy cowards," he was saying with derision. "Or the Muggles from the opulent mansion will pay for your sins!"

"Can't you two just do that disappearing trick?" asked Owen.

Harry shook his head. "Neither of us has actually knows the Albright mansion well enough for Apparition," he said.

"And they can probably do it as well we can," added Annie.

"Then what do we do?" asked Owen. He didn't understand what was happening or why. The men in the black clothes were talking about being oppressed by people without magic, which Owen thought was absurd. Magic people could control _minds_.

"Annie, do you know the basic Shielding Charm?" asked Harry.

"Yes," said Annie. "Why?"

"Be prepared to use it," he answered.

Harry looked around and then shouted " _Accio_ steel wrench!" A lying on a shelf near the right side of the brewery flew to Harry's hand. He passed it to Owen. "You're to have to try to get the Albright kids out of here," he said to Annie. Owen was still scared about having to fight wizards, but he also felt relieved that he wouldn't have to do it alone.

"Wait!" Annie said anxiously and grabbed Owen's hand. "You're a Muggle."

"Annie, he's going with you," Harry said.

"No, I'm not," Owen told them. He was not going to be a liability to Annie. He'd stay and try to buy her more time.

"She's right," Harry told him and avoided looking at his eyes. Owen avoided looking at Annie's. He did not want to be tempted to ask her to just take them back home with her magic. "You probably won't last long," continued Harry.

Another explosion ripped through the air, then a rush of hot fluid passed by the edges of the tank they were using for cover. The strange wizards were probably planning to destroy the brewery in an attempt to flush them out.

Harry pointed his wand at Owen and said _Protego_. Owen watched with some apprehension as a more strange white light came out of the wand and covered him with the same transparent barrier that had protected Harry earlier. "Try not to get hit by anything sparkling," Harry told him. "I don't know how strong they are."

Annie made a grab for him, but Owen side-stepped and put himself behind Harry.

"Annie, go back to the house and find the Albright kids," Harry said to her. "Apparate as far away as you can manage and then contact the Ministry."

One of the invading wizards finally found them and raised his wand. Harry quickly aimed him and shouted " _Expelliarmus_!" The wizard's wand flew out of his hand. He tried to run towards it but Harry shouted " _Stupefy_!" and he fainted just like Mr. Albright had.

"Annie, go!" Owen yelled at her. "Or are you going to let those kids die?" He felt guilty about using her protectiveness towards children against her, but he needed her to go. She looked at him like she was holding back tears and then disappeared.

"I think there's only one left," Harry said and turned around.

Before he could ask Harry if he knew any fancy magic that could force him to reveal himself, Owen heard shuffling steps coming at him from behind. Owen whirled around and found the remaining attacker standing close to him, his wand was raised. Bracing himself, Owen rushed toward the attacking wizard just as Harry shouted " _Silencio_!" and hit the man’s temple as hard as he could with the steel wrench.

There was no resistance to Owen’s strike. A dull sound made him jump a second before than man crumbled to his feet.

Owen expected the man to get up and try to attack them again. His heart was trying to escape from his lungs weren’t accommodating all the air he’d need to fight off a magic counterattack.

“You alright?” Harry asked.

He'd bashed the wizard's skull; there was blood and a grayish substance leaking into the floor. Owen didn’t dare look straight at the man’s head. He took a deep breath and tried not to throw up. After a few seconds, Owen dropped the wrench, doubled over and emptied out his stomach until he was only dry heaving. He'd never killed anyone before.

"Is it over?" he asked Harry when he managed calm.

"I think so," Harry said. His voice was back to sounding like it had while they were on the train: young and anxious. "I'll go check the one Annie got with the boiling fluid."

Owen decided to pick up the wrench go stand by the wizard Harry knocked out with magic. If he woke, Owen would whack him before he could go for his wand.

Though not with all his strength.

"His face and hands were covered in burns but he was alive," Harry said when he got back to Owen's side. "Listen."

Owen swallowed.

"When the ministry gets here,” Harry continued, “you tell them I got the guy you killed with the wrench. You heard me say _Reducto_ and then his head exploded. Repeat it, Owen."

"You said _Reducto_ and then his head exploded," Owen repeated. He was beginning to feel like the night wasn't real. He could feel his hands shaking.

"That's what we'll tell Annie too," he heard Harry say.

"Alright," Owen agreed. He usually didn't like lying to Annie, but he didn't really feel like arguing anymore.

"Let's go find her then," Harry said and started walking towards the exit.

Owen followed him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start getting a little different from the original version of this story from now on.

The night was mercilessly cold, almost as though it was trying obliterate away everything it didn’t like. Breathing in the freezing air was getting a little painful but the Aurors insisted on conducting their interviews outside the brewery. Mr. Bolter, the one questioning Harry, wasn't even slightly satisfied with Harry’s version of the facts. He was a short, stocky man with graying hair and thick mustache perched over a thin upper lip. And he wasn't even one of the Aurors who frequented the Cauldron, so Harry couldn’t even rely on some vague sense of familiarity.

"Mr. Riddle," he said again in an exasperated tone. "I still don't know why you would resort to using the Reductor Curse when you obviously know the basic Stunning Charm."

"I wasn't thinking straight," Harry said for the third time. At least they weren't questioning that he had used it. "It all happened very quickly." It hadn't been easy to go back to the corpse and shatter his head with a Reductor blast, but Harry had swallowed his unease and disgust and done it anyway. He didn't want to think about what would happen to Owen if he was found guilty of killing a wizard.

"The wizards who attacked you have no previous history of violence," Mr. Bolter finally let the Reductor issue go. "Why do you think they attacked you and Ms. Moreau?"

"They attacked all of us," Harry corrected, though he probably should try to his best not antagonize Mr. Bolter. "And I've never met them before but they said were traitors and something about a Wizarding Empire."

"Three kids don't wake up one day and decide to go on a Muggle-terrorizing rampage," Mr. Bolter pointed out.

Harry agreed. His theory was that the three wizards had been under the control of . . . something, though it hadn't looked like the Imperius Curse. They probably would have been much better fighters if they'd been under the control of someone powerful enough to hold three separate wizards under Imperio.

"Mr. Riddle," said Mr. Bolter sharply.

Harry realized he hadn't said anything for a while.

"You haven't asked me how the two surviving wizards are doing." Mr. Bolter said finally.

"Why would I ask how they're doing?" asked Harry in an incredulous tone. "They tried to kill us!"

"Why would you jump to that conclusion?" asked Mr. Bolter.

"What other conclusion was I supposed to jump to?" Harry countered. "They weren't wearing masks."

"They never actually attacked you," answered Mr. Bolter. "They damaged the Muggle's property, but they never actually fired any spells or curses at human beings."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. "They tried to fire spells at human beings but I stopped them," he said angrily. "And why else would they have blasted their way into the brewery?"

"To scare you and Ms. Moreau," answered Mr. Bolter. "Property damage and harassment are much less serious crimes than assault and murder."

"And how were we supposed to know what exactly they were going to do?" Harry had been worried for Owen, but he'd assumed that the Aurors wouldn't blame him and Annie for defending themselves.

"All offensive magic was used by you," said Mr. Bolter.

"I didn't realize that there was an _un-offensive_ way to blow up a building," Harry retorted.

"Mr. Riddle," started Mr. Bolter. "Try to understand how the situation looks to an outsider. You claim that three wizards with no criminal record attacked you and your associates. But you're not injured and neither are they. One of the three attackers, on the other hand, is dead. Another has extensive burns all over his face and hands."

Harry his hands over his face. It wasn't his fault that the three bastards had been such awful fighters. He fought them as he would have fought Death Eaters. He bet Owen had struck the dead one so hard because he'd been afraid. "So are you going to arrest me?" he asked finally.

Mrs. Wilkins would take care of Tommy. Not that Harry could let her innocently try to raise Voldemort.

"No," said Mr. Bolter. "But you're now under investigation. You're not allowed to leave London until further notice." He Disapparated without another word.

Harry made his way outside and found Annie and Owen leaning on each other. "Hey," he said after a few moments.

Annie lifted her head from Owen's shoulder. She looked at Harry for a few moments before she spoke. "Do you know what happened here, Harry?"

"Actually, I don't," he answered and had to smother a hysterical snort. What was he going to do when the Aurors realized that James Harry Riddle didn't exist? Tell them his real name? Technically, Harry Potter didn't exist either.

"Annie," Owen said. "They didn't say anything to Harry." Annie sighed and put her head on his shoulder again. "What's going to happen to the Albrights?"

"The Obliviators will fix their property and erase their memories," Annie told him.

"I have to go check on Tommy," Harry told no one in particular.

"Do you think you can handle another Apparition?" Annie asked Owen.

"I'll probably just dry heave," he answered. "I already emptied out my stomach."

Annie looked at Harry and nodded. He waited until they were gone and Apparated in the same secluded alley Annie had taken him to meet with Owen, who looked a little queasy after a second Apparition in one day but stayed on his feet.

"Owen, you should stay with me for tonight," Annie said as they started going towards the Cauldron.

"Are you sure your boss will agree to it?" Owen asked her.

"Yes, as long as you stay in my room," Annie responded. "Our next shift is starting in less than an hour," she said to Harry.

Since it had been their day off, Harry and Annie had to relieve Tom and Mrs. Wilkins for the graveyard shift. Harry considered leaving right then and there but he'd have to run eventually.

"Annie," he said instead. "The Aurors are not going to find me in any records." It was easier to think about that than what he'd found in the attackers' pockets.

" . . . Bureaucratic errors happen Harry," she told him after a while. "It's suspicious not to have papers, but not a crime." Harry didn't point out that he was already under investigation for murder.

Dinner rush hour had passed by the time they went into the Cauldron. Harry went to the counter and asked Mrs. Wilkins to hand him Tommy.

Surprisingly, Harry felt calmer once he had the baby. He needed to shower before his shift started and was so unwilling to let the brat out of his sight that he drew a bath. Tommy, who reacted like a moody cat during his baths, didn’t cry even once. Maybe it was because he was laying on Harry’s chest the entire time with his tiny ear over Harry’s heart, which seemed to be his favorite place to be.

Such a shame that no one besides Harry would ever appreciate the beautiful irony of his heartbeat soothing Voldemort.

All three attacking wizards had been carrying coins engraved with the symbol of the Deadly Hallows. Harry hadn't really paid much attention in History of Magic, but he knew that it was the symbol Grindelwald's army used. He was also fairly certain that the man hadn't ever come to England. The bastard was supposed to rampage over Europe until he was defeated by Dumbledore sometime in the 1940s.

He supposed it was possible that Grindelwald had sympathizers in England, but they would have probably emerged later in the war which, as far as Harry knew, hadn’t even started yet. And even if it had, there was no reason for Grindelwald to send incompetent lackeys to . . . whatever it was they'd been sent to do.

Scare him, maybe? Harry had been terrified when he'd thought the attackers would be on the same level as Death Eaters.

What Harry couldn't explain was how Grindelwald knew he existed. He wracked his brain trying to think of any huge changes he might have caused since he was transported into the past but besides taking Tommy out of the orphanage, he had stayed out history's way.

The specifics didn't really matter anyway; the biggest problem was that he couldn't in good consciousness stay at the Cauldron if it meant putting Annie, Mrs. Wilkins, and Tom in Grindelwald's line of fire. Unlike Voldemort, Grindelwald wasn't an infant.

Harry was surprised to realize that he didn't want to leave the Cauldron. It wasn't even just the knowledge that he had nowhere else to go. He had grown fond of working with Annie and spending time with Mrs. Wilkins as she played games with Tommy. He did hate the customers, but he didn't mind helping Annie cook. Tedious as it was, Harry had enjoyed the relative safety he'd enjoyed as an anonymous server for the last couple of months.

* * *

Annie didn't know what exactly happened in the brewery after she'd left, but she could see that Owen was lying. It meant that Harry was lying as well, but she wouldn't know from the way he'd been acting since the incident. Harry seemed detached, like he'd lost the ability to feel afraid.

Harry wasn't even capable of lying about his past without being visibly torn up by guilt, so how had he managed to blast through another person's skull? What about his past was so awful that he couldn't bring himself to speak of it when he had no problem admitting that he'd killed someone?

He'd seemed to win Owen's trust, at least. After the fight, Owen had defended Harry anytime she tried to suggest that the attackers were after him specifically. Owen pointed out that they hadn't recognized Harry, or even focused on him during the fight. Annie agreed that it was evidence that the attack didn't have anything to do with Harry specifically, but she wondered why Owen wouldn't even consider the possibility.

"The painting’s moving," Owen said while looking at the portrait of a mermaid Annie had put in her room.

"Yes," Annie agreed, trying not to be too concerned about how flat Owen’s voice sounded. "It's magic."

"How can you get naked in here?" he asked.

"I cover my eyes," said the mermaid in the painting, then winked at him. She settled for bathing before her shift started. The water calmed her nerves a little, but didn't do much to ease her exhaustion. At least Owen had fallen asleep - or pretended to - when she came out of the bathroom.

Annie put on a bright yellow dress, which didn't do anything to lighten her mood, and plastered on her work smile before heading downstairs. She was glad there wouldn't be too many customers for a while because she doubted she could force herself to be cheerful under if anyone turned into a prat over their sandwich. She saw Harry wiping down the counter and stomach twisted like a treacherous snake.

"You look like death," said Mrs. Wilkins when Annie walked towards the counter. “More so than Harry, even."

“Was Albright _that_ obnoxious?” asked Tom as he wiped down the stools closest to the counter.

"Three strange wizards attacked us while Mr. Albright was giving us a tour of his brewery," said Harry before Annie could respond. "One of them is dead and another is being treated for burns. Probably."

Annie had been planning to tell the story (they had to give a reason for failing to establish a trading agreement with Mr. Albright) but she wouldn't have done it so bluntly. Thanks to Harry's oddly flat tone, they had to spend the next half an hour answering questions and reassuring Tom and Mrs. Wilkins that they were all right.

It was obvious to Annie that Harry wasn't any doing any better than Owen had been. Over the last few weeks, Harry had been opening up and starting to smile and ask questions. He’d begun to play games of Exploding Snap with Mrs. Wilkins and discussing Quidditch news with Tom. It was almost half an hour before they could escape to the back and start preparing for the next day’s rush hours. Tom had no problem manning the front during graveyard shifts since customers were few and far in between after midnight.

"Do you know of Albus Dumbledore?" he asked suddenly.

". . . He's the Transfiguration teacher and head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts," Annie said.

Harry took out scribbled something down on the parchment he was using to list which spices they needed to restock, then showed it to Annie. "Do you recognize it?" he asked her.

It was a triangle with a circle inside of it, bisected by a straight line. "No," she answered. "What is it?"

". . . It was engraved on coins in the pockets of the wizards who attacked us," Harry said. He looked away from her the same way he usually did when he was lying or avoiding the truth.

"Harry," she started pleadingly, her voice pitched to a tone that she hated. "I know you're afraid to tell me where you came from, but you have to tell me something. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

Harry looked up at her and sighed. "It's the symbol of the Deathly Hallows," he said finally, sounding defeated. "The line down the middle represents the Elder Wand, the triangle is the Cloak of Invisibility, and the circle is for the Resurrection Stone. There's a legend that whoever owns all three will have power over death."

"And you think it has something to do with what happened tonight?" she asked, unable to keep her head from shaking impatiently. "I don't know anything anymore," Harry said. "Do you know of Gellert Grindelwald?"

"Who?" she asked, her voice rising.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore, "Harry said suddenly. "Could you reach him?"

"Harry," she answered tiredly. "Do you _think_ I could reach _Albus Dumbledore_?"

"I need to talk to him," he insisted, ignoring her sarcastic question. He started writing furiously in a blank piece of parchment. "He'll answer me if I mention Grindelwald."

"Harry, how are you involved with someone connected to Dumbledore?" Annie asked. The question sounded ridiculous when said out loud.

"I'm _not_ ," said Harry firmly, then stopped writing. "I'm not supposed to be," he added with less certainty.

"Owen said the men didn't recognize you specifically," Annie said. She hated knowing so little about the situation that she didn't even know what to ask.

"I've never met them," Harry told her. "I think someone was controlling their minds anyway."

"Grindelwald?" she asked.

"I'm not sure but the he uses the Deathly Hallows symbol," Harry said. "Is there an owl here I can use?"

"Tom owns one," Annie responded. "But you're going to have tell him who you're going to contact if you want to borrow it."

"I better go buy an owl during my break tomorrow," Harry said. Annie waited for him to say more, but he just resumed inspecting spices.

Annie could almost taste bitter acid in her mouth. Hadn't she risked her job to help Harry? And apparently, her she'd risked her safety as well. Why couldn't he just tell her the truth?

She supposed it was her own fault. Nobody had forced her to go out of her way to help a stranger. In fact, Annie had been questioning her judgment about Harry since the day she met him.

It might’ve been easier to turn him away if he was obviously a bad person. But Annie didn't doubt that he was good. The truth was that she'd been reluctant to help him because she was afraid for herself, not because she thought he didn't deserve help.

"Annie," Harry said after a while. "I wouldn't have stayed if I'd known I was putting people in the danger. The people who were after me before—they . . . they're gone. I don't know what happened today, I swear."

"I believe you," Annie answered. And she did. "But Harry—I don't even know if that's really your name!" she snorted.

"It's Harry Potter," he said.

"From the ancient Potter House?" Annie asked.

"In a way . . ." Harry said and shrugged. "Annie, I can't explain it now. If I figure anything out, you'll be the first to know. I promise."

Annie considered asking him more questions but decided against it. Harry had revealed more in one conversation than he had in two months. Getting answers out of him was about as easy as getting blood from a dragon. If he really was a bastard of the Potter clan, it was not surprising that he had trust issues. As far as she knew, the Potters were among the less obnoxious of the old clans but no large family liked illegitimate children, especially if they weren't Purebloods. She was satisfied for the time being.

* * *

 Albus Dumbledore was not having a good week. Sometimes, he felt like he was having a bad _life_ , though he was intelligent enough to realize that he was mostly privileged. He knew hundreds of wizards and witches would kill to be a Professor at Hogwarts. But he was fairly certain that they failed to take into account the more the less glamorous aspects of the job.

"Ladies, gentlemen," he addressed the prefects of all four houses. "It's imperative that we find the students who Transfigured Headmaster Dippet's chair into a Hippogriff's arse."

Abraxas Malfoy chose this moment to let out a let out a loud snort. "I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly and tried to compose himself. "This is obviously serious."

Charles Potter was also trying to hide his smirks, though Albus suspected it was more out fear of looking like he agreed with a Slytherin rather than any respect for Headmaster Dippet.

"It's somewhat humorous," Albus told the boy because - to hell with it - it _was_. "However," he sobered quickly, "we must not allow this kind of behavior to go unchecked at Hogwarts. I expect you all to investigate this matter. I could easily discover who’s responsible of course, but I will give the guilty party a chance to confess. Inform the students in your dormitories first thing in the morning."

The children exited his office. His door wasn't even closed before most of them started laughing and joking among themselves.

Albus sighed. Headmaster Dippet should be handling the issue (it wasn't Albus' chair that had been vandalized) but the older wizard preferred to live the handling of virtually all student affairs to Albus and the other heads of houses. Unfortunately, the students sensed that the Headmaster was no longer overly invested in the affairs of the school and took it as a sign that he was an easy target for pranks.

It would probably not be such an issue if Headmaster Dippet weren’'t succumbing to senility. Albus didn't really blame him; the man had been born in the 1600s. Sadly, it didn't look like he wanted to retire anytime soon despite his advanced age. At least Albus could honestly say he was amused by the students’ antics.

Albus probably enjoyed the students' frequent prank wars because it brought a source of mild unpredictability to his otherwise monotonous life. He didn't regret coming to Hogwarts, truly. But sometimes . . .

After Ariana's death, he'd wandered through life in a vaguely functional daze. He'd spent his twenties traveling to dangerous locations and fighting vicious magical creatures mostly so to feel something. He now understood his guilt had been so profound that he'd been looking for something to kill him.

It wasn't until he got lost in the Sahara that he began to feel any peace, though he’d realized several hours after running out water that he didn't really want to die. With his remaining strength, he'd shot a bright beam of light towards the sky and prayed for something to find him. He'd woken up in a beautiful oasis, with dying bird resting by his side. Confused and weakened, Albus decided to sit by the bird and keep it company in its last moments. He'd been surprised when it burst into flames and was reborn as a tiny chick.

Only then did Albus realized the bird was a phoenix and that it'd used a great deal of power to save his life. He saw it as a sign that he deserved to live—phoenixes were noble creatures, they would not waste power saving someone unworthy. He’d nursed the phoenix chick (who he named Fawkes) until it was strong enough to fend for itself and returned to England. When he heard that Armando Dippet was looking for a Transfiguration teacher, he took it as a sign.

The right way to honor Ariana's memory was to dedicate his life to other children, not to waste it in some absurd fight against an anonymous dragon. Or any other elaborate and absurd suicide scheme. He'd forgotten that most people—most children, especially—were significantly less intelligent than he was. Teaching, it turned out, was not intellectually stimulating.

Albus supplemented his teaching duties with research and ambassadorial work, but both were failing to keep him entertained as of late. He felt disinclined to play mediator between humans and magical creatures and his research had reached a metaphorical wall. To gain more knowledge and power, he'd need to cross magical lines he wasn't sure he wanted to cross.

If he didn’t find something to imbue his life with a sense of fulfillment . . . Brilliant wizards did ridiculous things when they were bored.

He was grading a particularly inane essay on the dangers of Transfiguration of humans (he wished other teachers would agree with him and add basic writing course for first and second years; he didn't care if it had nothing to do with magic) when an unknown owl flew into his office.

Normally, Albus ignored any correspondence from owls he did not recognize since most of it was from people who were impressed with what they'd read in the publication of his travelling memoirs. However, he was bored enough that he decided to take a look.

Then he wished he hadn't.

__Dear Professor Dumbledore,_ _

_My name is Harry. You don't know me but I know you. I'm sorry to bother you, but my friends and I were attacked by three wizards carrying coins engraved with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. I know that it's the symbol used by Grindelwald and his followers. I need to speak with you. I work at the Leaky Cauldron. Please, come see me as soon as possible. I'm afraid to write more in an owl._

_Harry_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the one month I have with some free time I'm using to edit and repost my old fic instead of working on the ones I haven't finished.
> 
> Welp.

Harry was comfortable, except for the anvils over his arms. He’d fallen into bed after a particularly grueling day shift at the Cauldron. Mondays were usually hard—or maybe it was Friday? There was an awful taste in his mouth; he'd probably forgotten to brush his teeth before going to sleep again. But at least it was his day off, whatever day it was, or Annie would have chased him out of bed at the crack of dawn.

Tommy was crying. Mrs. Wilkins picked him up before Harry went to sleep, so the wails might be a dream. Harry wanted to get up and check but he couldn't quite feel his legs. His arms were laying heavy at his side, and it took ridiculous effort to them to so much as twitch. He lifted his heavy eyelids but saw only emptiness in front of him. Next thing he saw was Tommy’s screaming little face so he must have gotten up at some point.

He picked the baby slowly, making sure to support his neck and shuffled back to his bed. He laid Tommy across his chest and closed his eyes, intending to open them again right away but his eyelids felt as if they were being held closed by tiny metal weights.

Eventually, he forced himself to open his eyes. Annie would probably disapprove of how carelessly he was holding the baby. Besides, Tommy was still crying, squirming on Harry’s chest like a snake.

Harry slowly lowered Tommy down on his bed and got up to stretch. He shuffled over to his small window and lifted the curtain. The mor—afternoon sun hit his eyes and made him wince. Pain ascended from his calves, to his thighs, and lower back, which hadn’t happened since his first two weeks of working on his feet all day. Was he getting a cold? Wizards didn’t get those, did they?

Once he was certain he wasn't going to pass out, he lifted Tommy and tried to figure out what the problem was. The diaper. It was usually the diaper. Brat probably wanted to eat too.

Harry brushed his teeth and then mechanically changed Tommy's diaper. Tommy screamed throughout the whole ordeal, but Harry had gotten used telling the bored screaming from distressed screaming apart. His head was still pounding.

"Where is Mrs. Wilkins?" he asked Tommy, who only screamed louder in response. "Did you finally do something evil to scare her off?" Harry asked and rubbed the tiny sole of Tommy's left foot with his right thumb. He sighed and picked up Tommy when his cries failed lessen. It was time to head back downstairs, where Tommy predictably stopped crying when Harry offered him a milk bottle.

Harry yawned and tried to organize his thoughts. The Aurors had already come back to question him about his lack of proper identification and Harry had to play stupid when asked why his name didn't appear on any records. Annie had been right though, not having proof of identity was not grounds for being arrested though he was expected to go by the ministry and register himself at some point. Within a fortnight, Mr. Bolter had insisted.

The surviving attackers had admitted that they had gone to the Albright brewery because they'd wanted to punish Harry and Annie. Strangely, they also admitted that they'd never met Harry or Annie before. The Aurors suspected magical coercion, so they'd ordered an evaluation at St. Mungo's. Both men showed the symptoms of people who'd been under a Confundus Charm. They knew that they hated Harry and Annie, but they didn't remember ever meeting them. The Aurors asked Harry and Annie if they had a common enemy.

Harry doubted that Annie had any enemies at all. He'd tried to apologize when the Aurors left, but Annie had just waved him off. It only made Harry angrier at himself and at Grindelwald. Annie hadn't asked him more questions after their conversation the night of the attack. Fortunately so, since Harry doubted he could keep lying to her for much longer. He needed to talk to Dumbledore.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore didn't seem to want to talk to him. Harry sent his new owl a week ago, but it came back empty handed. He'd gotten no owls from anyone and it only served to remind him of how alone he was. His new owl (whom he'd named Lien) was bored and Harry wondered if wouldn't be a kindness to take her back to Eeylops'.

While Harry was brooding, Tommy gurgled and Harry lifted the bottle away from his mouth. He laid the baby on his shoulder and began to gently tap his back with the palm of his hand. "If Dumbledore doesn't come here or owl me back by tomorrow, I swear we're going to Hogwarts," he told Tommy.

Harry put Tommy down on his basket and made himself a sandwich. For the umpteenth time, he wished Ron and Hermione were with him. He had no idea what do about anything. He considered asking Annie for advice, but it would probably take him hours to simply explain what the problem was to her.

Almost as if his thoughts had summoned her, Annie walked into the backroom holding a tray overloaded with dirty dishes. "You seem quieter than usual," she told him when he didn't even greet her.

"Sorry, I just . . ." he trailed off and sighed. Annie walked over to Tommy's basket and started tickle him.

"Rosalind Potter is outside. She's having lunch with a handsome young man," she said after a few moments.

It took Harry a couple of seconds to remember why she would tell him that. "Right," he said. "I should probably steer clear of the front then." Vaguely, he felt guilty about maligning his ancestors, but he couldn't bring himself to face Annie's questions by defending them. He berated himself for telling her his real name again. He should have thought of another kernel of truth to give her the other night.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Harry answered automatically though it took him a couple of seconds to realize what Annie was referring to. "How's Owen?" he deflected quickly.

"He's still recovering from the attack," Annie told in a strained voice. "Can you give me some more details about what happened?"

Harry had to hold back another sigh. No topic was safe for someone who lied about everything. "Uh . . . it was over pretty quickly," he said. That was true enough.

“Maybe . . .” Annie started. “Maybe the Potters can help you? I hear they’re not so bad, as far as old Pureblood families go.”

Asking the Potters for help? The idea hadn’t crossed Harry’s mind even once, though maybe it should have. Except . . . it was _1927_. Had his grandfather been born yet? Were the Potters really any different than random people off the street? What had he been thinking when he told Annie his real name?

He was saved from having to think of something to add when Tom burst through the door. " _Albus Dumbledore_ is looking for you," he told Harry excitedly.

Harry expected to feel relief when he heard the news, but instead he felt his sandwich churn in his stomach. What if Dumbledore didn't believe him?

"Why didn't you say you knew _Albus Dumbledore?_ " asked Tom in a loud voice.

"I wouldn't say I _know_ him," Harry said and looked at his feet. He took a deep breath and readied himself to go talk to Dumbledore. "Watch Tommy for me, please," he told Annie before making his way to the front.

"But, Ms. Potter!" Annie called before he walked outside.

"She won't recognize me," Harry said and tried to ignore the way Annie's eyebrows furrowed. Hopefully, he'd be able to tell her the truth soon.

Harry expected to recognize Dumbledore immediately. He wasn't expecting a clean-shaven middle aged man with wavy, shoulder length auburn hair and sleek (paradoxically 1990s-modern) _black_ robes. Without the half-moon spectacles, Harry wouldn’t have recognized him all.

"Professor Dumbledore?" he asked him cautiously.

"And you must be Harry," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was led to believe you already know me."

"I . . ." The truth was that Harry hadn't really thought about what he would say once he could talk to Dumbledore. "Sir . . ." And now that Dumbledore was here, he felt closer to panicking than he'd felt when he'd been attacked.

"We should continue this in a more private location," Dumbledore said.

"I have to work tonight," Harry said and then ran his hand through his hair. He needed to talk so Dumbledore so why was he trying to make excuses to avoid him?

"I'm sure Tom would not mind if you were a little late once," Dumbledore said.

"I won't," said Tom from behind Harry.

"Tommy never makes much of a fuss either." Annie was standing with the baby in her arms behind Tom. She nodded at him encouragingly.

Harry nodded and took a quick breath. It was natural that he was apprehensive about talking to Dumbledore. He didn't know how the Professor would react. Dimly, he remembered that Dumbledore was dead in his time and wondered why he wasn't happier to see him.

"We should be off," Dumbledore said and offered Harry his hand. Harry steeled himself and took it.

* * *

In all honesty, Albus’ first instinct after reading “Harry’s” letter was to throw it at his fireplace and pretend he’d never read it. He wasn’t afraid of Gellert - Albus was at least as powerful and even if he wasn’t, he hadn’t been scared of death in a long time - but Gellert made him think of Ariana. Of her lying dead and broken, probably by Albus’ own wand. Such a shame that his first love now reminded him most sharply of the worst day of his life but it was less than Albus deserved.

He had no right to let Gellert rampage all over Britain because he was too cowardly to face his memories.

On a shallower note, Albus' had to admit that his boredom made the news of Gellerts' possible return almost welcome. “Harry Riddle” didn’t seem to exist, making it distressingly likely that he was one of Gellert’s psychophants. Albus wouldn’t entertain that the boy might be one of Gellert’s disguises because his old flame would be caught dead before being caught hiding as a simple serving boy.

Albus did not discard the possibility that the whole thing was some kind of elaborate prank that Gellert had orchestrated in a fit of spite. Maybe he'd read one of Albus' academic publications and been insulted by some offhand remark Albus had made about magic. He'd checked the Auror reports and someone had attacked the Leaky Cauldron servers. And knowing Gellert, he would probably think blasting a random wizard's skull with a Reductor Curse a minor expenditure if it attracted Albus' attention.

His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the Leaky Cauldron on the first Friday of March. He'd sensed Gellert's magical signature permeating the entire pub. When The Leaky Cauldron’s proprietor went off to get Harry, Albus started bracing himself for a fight. The boy wasn’t Gellert disguised - too plain looking to be one of Gellert’s alter egos - but Gellert had a knack for attracting talented wizards with chips on their shoulders.

Albus looked over at the Harry. He had nice green eyes but was otherwise average looking. Even the strange zigzag scar on his forehead was too subdued for Gellert. It didn't eliminate the possibility that Gellert was controlling him. Albus tried to view Harry's thoughts with Legilimency and the boy flinched immediately. He was sensitive but a very poor Occlumens, nevertheless.

"Hey!" he yelled. The people seating nearest to them turned to look at them. Albus cast a weak Disillusionment Charm around their table.

"My apologies," Albus said and took a sip from his tea. "I'm still not entirely certain that you're not Gellert. Or working for Gellert. Or being controlled by Gellert." Albus almost rolled his eyes.

"I'm not," Harry said. "Why are we here?" He looked around the restaurant for the first time since they'd come in.

Albus enjoyed the dim atmosphere and impressionist paintings covering the walls. The entire ceiling looked like a stormy sky with the sun peeking from the clouds of northernmost side. The lighting made it look as if it was always changing. In some ways, it was as impressive as the ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The only drawback was that Albus had to Transfigure his robes into a conservative Muggle suit in order to not attract any undue attention.

"I find that Muggle businesses are the best places to have conversations away from magical ears," Albus told him.

"Do you always go around trying to violate people's minds?" Harry asked indignantly.

"You did say you knew me," Albus pointed out.

The boy looked away and sank into his chair and shot Albus a petulant glare, though it was doubtful he realized how young he looked when he did that.

"It's impressive that you noticed me doing it at all."

"I'm an awful Occlumens," Harry said. "Can't control my emotions. Maybe Grindelwald _is_ controlling me."

"If he was, you wouldn't be wondering about the possibility," Albus reassured him. "You said you needed my help."

"There were coins engraved with the Deathly Hallows’ symbol in the pockets of the wizards who attacked me and my friends," Harry said.

"And how do you know it has anything with Gellert?" Albus asked. "He hardly publicizes his actions."

Harry sighed. "Well, there's really no way to ease this into the conversation, so I'm just going to come out and say it," he said and then took a deep breath. "I'm from the future. I was born in 1980." He frowned. " _Will_ be born in 1980."

" . . . Perhaps Gellert has developed more sophisticated Confundus Charm," Albus said. He was privately amused. It was the kind of absurdity Gellert would enjoy.

"I wish," Harry said and took a sip of his tea. "It's how I know that he uses the Deathly Hallows symbol as some kind evil signature. Let's just say he's going to publicize his actions soon enough."

"There are Legilimens at St. Mungos who can help you," Albus said gently.

"I'm not crazy or confounded," said the boy urgently. "Look . . . what can I say to prove I'm telling the truth . . . Your favorite candies are lemon drops!"

"Anyone who's read my travelling memoirs knows that," pointed out Albus.

"Your what?" asked Harry. "What are you, the _Lockhart_ of the twenties?" He shook his head and then buried it in his hands.

Albus chuckled, incapable of hiding his amusement. "You still haven't said what it is you expect do about your situation," he told Harry with a smile.

" _Do_?" Harry asked and glared. "I expect you to find Grindelwald and get rid of him!"

"Why?" asked Albus.

" _Why_?" retorted the boy. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't given me irrefutable proof that Gellert is responsible for the attack on you and your friends," Albus said, taking another sip of his tea. "And even if you had, I'm not Gellert's keeper." Albus knew the boy was right of course, but he still didn't know how he'd arrived at the correct conclusion. Gellert wasn't controlling him either, at least not with magic. Albus couldn't sense Gellert's magical presence in Harry.

"Seriously?" Harry asked, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. "I have to persuade you to help me. Even with _Grindelwald_?"

"You seem to be under the impression that we have some kind of relationship," Albus said. "We do not."

"Of course we don't," Harry said. Albus watched as his hands tightened into fists. "But everyone told me not to worry because Dumbledore will handle it because he's the most powerful wizard alive. He's the only one You-Know-Who every feared."

"Mr. Riddle," Albus started.

"But they didn't know you, did they?" Harry continued before Albus could offer to take him to St. Mungo's again. "I thought you were watching out for me. I guess you were in a way. And then you died and left me with _nothing_. Well, you left a Snitch with a stupid, infuriating message because you couldn't say a straight sentence to me even in death. Even _Snape_ helped me more in the end."

Albus took another sip of his tea and considered the situation. Despite the how incoherent his diatribe had been, he didn't sound like he was Confounded. Never mind the possibility that he was under _Imperio_ , his face was too emotive. Harry sounded utterly convinced of what he was saying. Perhaps it was why Albus decided to entertain the possibility that he was telling the truth.

"Even the most powerful of Time Turners can only end a person back in time a few hours," he said to Harry. Of course, that could change in the future.

"Can't you do some kind of spell to check the time of my birth or something?" Harry asked flatly.

"Such spells would only tell me how old you are," Albus told him gently.

The boy only sighed again and took a sip of his tea. The fight seemed to have drained out of him. A waiter came by with a basket of bread and asked if they were ready to order. Albus ordered roasted lamb with mashed potatoes and gravy with pineapple juice. When Harry didn't order anything, Albus ordered the same for him.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Harry asked after the waiter left.

"Yes," Albus answered. "I do believe that Gellert is interested in you. That alone makes your story worth investigating."

"Why didn't you tell me you believed me right away?" Harry asked with wide eyes.

"Because I discovered next to nothing about you while I was investigating the claims in your owl," Dumbledore said. "I find the best way to learn about people is to let them talk."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Why did you adopt Merope Gaunt's child?"

The boy's demeanor changed instantly. He dropped his hands under the table and sank into his chair. His shoulders hunched and his gaze dropped to the table. He suddenly looked panicked.

"He's important to me in the future," Harry said after a while. "He hated growing up in an orphanage."

Albus calculated the ages quickly. If Harry really was a time traveler—and Albus very much doubted that he was—then Tom Riddle Jr. had been fifty-four years old when Harry Riddle was born. It was hardly an age difference conducive to building meaningful relationships. Unless . . . "Was he your father?"

"What— _no!_ " Harry yelled. He looked so horrified it was comical.

Albus chuckled and decided to leave questions about the child for later.

Harry shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. "Why do you believe me about Grindelwald?"

"Because I sense the presence of his magic inside the Leaky Cauldron," Albus answered and reached for the garlic bread.

Perhaps subconsciously, Harry followed his lead and reached for bread as well. "Then why hasn't he attacked me?" he asked between bites.

"I don't know," Albus admitted. "Why do you think he's after you?"

"The Deathly Hallows," Harry answered. "I can confirm they exist and I know where the Invisibility Cloak is, more or less. What I don't know is how _he_ knows I even exist."

"That's quite a claim to make," Albus said. Years ago, he would have been enthralled by such a possibility. He knew better now. Even if the Hallows did exist, Albus no longer believe that they could grant a wizard mastery over death. He wasn't even sure if he still wanted such a power. "Where is the Invisibility Cloak?" Albus asked him.

"It's a Potter family heirloom," he responded easily.

"That's just a cloak made of Demiguise fur," Albus said.

"No, it's actually a Deathly Hallow," Harry insisted firmly.

"Have you been telling other people about this?" Albus asked. It was unlikely, but Harry might have attracted Gellert's attention by bragging to his friends about knowing of a way to overcome death.

"Do you think I _want_ people to think I'm crazy?" Harry asked and rolled his eyes. "I haven't told anyone anything. The only friend I've made here is about to tell me to sod off because I can't answer a single question about my past."

"You're telling me," Albus pointed out.

"Only because I have no choice," Harry said. "I'm not strong enough to get rid of Grindelwald. And you already did it."

Albus smiled. He’d done no such thing, of course, but his ego rather enjoyed Harry’s resentful confidence in his abilities. The waiter brought their food and Albus watched as Harry practically tore into his lamb. It was a curious sight; Albus didn't think that a person who worked at a pub would ever want for food. He shook his head and started to eat his own roasted lamb. Maybe the boy had been used to going without food before starting at the Cauldron.

"So how did you travel back in time a century?" Albus asked and chuckled.

". . . I have no idea," Harry said. Of course he didn't.

"Gellert won't show himself to me," Albus said, willing to drop the time-travelling issue for now. "And apparently, he won't show himself to you either. We will have to find him."

"I don't understand why he's doing this," Harry said and drank some pineapple juice. "Why doesn't he just torture me?"

Albus felt a surge of protectiveness towards him. A child should not be so flippant about the possibility of being tortured.

"Is there any knowledge from the future that might help us find him?" Albus asked, eager to see how Harry answered more questions about time travelling.

"All I know is that he wanted to build a Wizarding Empire and take over all Muggles," Harry answered.

Difficult as it was to hear the Gellert’s ambitions so succinctly summarized, it didn’t prove Harry was a time traveler. Many wizards dreamed of wresting the world out Muggle control even if very few dared try to do anything about it.

"If you wanted people to pay attention in History of Magic, you'd hire someone who wasn't a ghost to teach it," Harry added.

"No one at Hogwarts has the heart to exorcise Professor Binns," Albus said. "And we would have to, if we tried to hire another History of Magic professor."

Harry rolled his eyes. "So what are we going to do about Grindelwald?" he asked.

"We must try to corner him," Albus said seriously. "It's best to learn as much about any new rumors about the Deathly Hallows. Rosalind Potter is a leading expert in Wizarding mythology. We should contact her. Gellert will certainly try to."

Harry nodded and continued to eat his meal in silence. Albus did the same and hoped Gellert would be willing to see reason now that he was older.

* * *

 Annie lowered herself onto her bed and arranged Tommy face down on her chest. He was old enough he could lift his head and make noises to draw attention to himself. She started petting his head and wondered what Harry was telling Dumbledore. She hadn't been as surprised as Tom when Dumbledore came to see Harry. If he really was related to the Potters, then it wasn't inconceivable that he could get someone like Dumbledore to talk to him.

Quite frankly, she was glad Harry was finally doing something to solve his problems. It lifted a weight off her shoulders to know that he wasn't as alone and defenseless as she'd originally thought. Of course, she wished he'd used his connections before dragging her into whatever circus he found himself in, but late was better than never. Annie had never been in a serious fight her entire life before meeting Harry. Now she was dealing with Aurors and wondering if any of Harry's enemies would think to target her.

To make things worse, Owen hadn't been the same since they'd been attacked at Mr. Albrights. At first, he'd been subdued and distant whenever Annie went to visit him. Then, he'd become jumpy and more aggressive than she'd ever seen him, though not towards anything specific. He seemed to be expecting to be attacked again at any moment. He was afraid for Annie in a way he'd never been before. Owen had asked Annie more questions about magic in the last few days then he'd had since she'd first confessed she was a witch.

Annie tried to get Owen to speak about what had happened in the brewery, but he just kept repeating that Harry had said Reducto and the wizard's forehead had exploded. She'd begun to suspect that Owen was scared of Harry, but he also defended him whenever Annie tried to complain about how secretive he was. And Harry was secretive. She'd tried to ask him for details about the attack on the brewery, but he always just hemmed and hawed about how fast everything had happened.

It was enough to make Annie lose patience with both of them. She sighed and stood up, careful to keep a firm hold on Tommy. She better go around Diagon Alley for a walk before her shift started because she was in no mood to be talked down to for eight hours while keeping a pleasant smile plastered on her lips. She hoped Harry would be back before the next shift started.

Annie wrapped Tommy with one of her warmer scarves and wrapped her own hair in another one. When she opened the door to the hallway, she found Owen standing outside the door.

"How did you get here?" she asked as she stood on the tip of her toes to kiss his cheek.

Tommy made a gurgling noise and gestured towards Owen. She motioned for him to enter her room and closed her door behind him.

"Followed a person wearing funny clothes," he answered. "This Harry's baby?" he asked and let Tommy grab his thumb with his tiny right hand. Tommy's skin looked even paler next to Owen's dark-skinned finger.

Annie nodded. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Yes," Owen answered. "I just . . . I was just wondering if we could set a date for our wedding."

Annie blinked and shifted Tommy to her left side. "You're asking me this now?" she said. "And so romantically too!"

"Well, you only live once!" Owen said, his voice rising.

Annie leaned over and hugged him with her free hand. He was still struggling with what happened at the Albright's. "I love you," she told him. "And I'll set a date for our wedding if it will make you feel better." Annie had obviously been planning to marry him for a while anyway. "But I wish you would tell what has you so spooked."

Owen was about to say something before someone knocked on Annie's door. She patted Owen on the shoulder and went to answer.

"Aurors are here to see you," Tom told Annie before she was done opening the door.

Owen moved over to her. "Is something wrong?" he asked anxiously.

"No," Annie told him quickly. "They probably have more questions about Harry." Annie handed Tommy over to Owen, gave him a big smile, and headed downstairs.

At least she no longer had to worry that Tom would sack them. Harry apparently knew Dumbledore so Tom would be willing to suffer Aurors coming to his business to ask questions just to keep him on.

The two of Aurors were waiting for Annie in the most secluded table at The Leaky Cauldron. She steeled herself and sat down in front of the one who had questioned them after the incident at the Albrights, an aging wizard with a thick mustache and a sour resting face. He looked at her without saying anything and Annie refused to be the first one to look away. His partner, a taller and younger man with red hair smiled at her encouragingly.

"I don't know if you remember me, Ms. Moreau. I'm Mr. Bolter, the Auror in charge of investigating the incident with the Albrights." He paused and Annie nodded. "We can’t find nothing about Harry Riddle's past," the continued. "We can't even find any real connection between the two of you. Tom says he hired him because you recommended him. Why did you help him?"

"Because he needed my help," Annie said evenly.

"So you helped for no reason and without expecting anything in return?" the redhead asked.

"Should you need a reason to help someone?" Annie asked.

Mr. Bolter gaze softened. "Ms. Moreau," he started and smiled at her gently. "Sometimes criminals take advantage of nice girls with promises of love, but they're liars."

Unbidden, a picture of Harry trying to seduce her—trying to seduce anyone—formed itself in Annie’s. Before she could vanish it, she burst out laughing. She couldn't help it, the image was just too ridiculous. Mr. Bolter’s forehead wrinkles deepened and Annie tried to cover her mouth with her hand. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

"I'm sorry," she told Mr. Bolter. "It's just the image of Harry seducing anyone . . . it's absurd."

"Then how did he convince you to help?" asked the redhead. "He must have done or said something to make you believe he was safe to deal with."

". . . He told me there was a baby he needed to take care of," Annie said finally. It was part of the truth and the Aurors would not be satisfied if she said she had just followed her intuition.

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Bolter. "The Riddle infant."

"He's Harry's nephew," Annie told him.

"Tom Riddle Sr. has no brother," the redhead told her. "James Harry Riddle does not exist."

Annie bit her lower lip. She’d assumed Harry had lied about his family name because he'd been afraid that no one would help him if it meant risking a feud with the Potters. Maybe it was why he'd made up the story about Tommy's mother using a love potion to marry his father. Either way, there was nothing Annie could tell the Aurors. Once again, she mentally cursed Harry for not opening up to her.

"And his Muggle papers are magical forgeries," added Mr. Bolter. "Do you know where he could have found those papers?"

"You insist he's a criminal," Annie responded. "And you're an Auror. Surely you know where he would find them."

"You should watch your tone Ms. Moreau," Mr. Bolter's voice was beginning to rise. "Or we might start thinking that you're not unknowingly supporting a murderer."

"Harry killed that wizard in self defense," Annie countered and put her elbows on the table.

Mr. Bolter sneered. "Or so he says."

"My fiancée was there and he corroborates Harry's version of events," Annie reminded him.

"Your fiancée is a Muggle," Mr. Bolter said and smirked. "He's clearly parroting whatever Riddle confounded him or intimidated him into saying."

Annie fumed. While she didn't think Harry was forcing Owen to say anything, it was true that he kept repeating the same thing over and over when she asked him how the one attacker had died. She was forced to admit to herself that Owen might be lying to her, but she refused to give this Auror the satisfaction of seeing her look anxious.

“Am I free to go?” she asked.

“. . . Yes,” Mr. Bolter admitted through gritted teeth.

Annie stood up. "Then I have to prepare for my shift."

"Ms. Moreau," she heard the redhead say after she turned around. She paused but didn't turn back to face them. "The Riddles are missing. We can't prove that your Mr. Riddle had anything to do with it, but no one in Little Hangleton has ever heard of him. Please, be careful. If you think you can help us—or that you need help—feel free to owl me at Auror Headquarters. My name is Septimus Weasley."

Annie almost turned back to thank him for his courtesy but she was too unnerved by the news of the Riddles' disappearance. It was clear that the Aurors thought Harry was responsible, but she refused to entertain the possibility that he was. She couldn't have been that wrong about him. Harry had been lying, yes; but he was also gentle and fair. He cared for Tommy religiously and he had never really lost his temper. The most he did was glare and mildly insult obnoxious customers. Annie had never heard him raise his voice.

She almost headed back to her room but she remembered that Owen was still waiting for her. She was certain that if she saw him in her current state, she would be unable to stop herself from demanding to know what had happened at the Albright brewery after she Disapparated. Annie didn't think she could put up with Owen's lies now and she doubted he was in a state to fight with her. She settled for going to the backroom and laying her head on the cooking table.


	6. Chapter 6

Even though Cedrella was nine years her junior, Rosalind Potter still made an effort to be her friend because unlike the overwhelming majority of her family, Cedrella didn't seem to be convinced of the superiority of her blood. Rosalind had accidentally met the girl during the last Ministry sponsored ball, where the girl been hiding behind a large statue of Merlin and using an enchanted candle she'd liberated from the larger tables to read a small book.

Rosalind had tripped on the way to the rest rooms, by random whim of fate, discovered Cedrella Black, child of one the most prejudiced families in the Wizarding World, reading _Peter and Wendy_. The poor girl had been terrified that Rosalind was going to tell her mother that she'd found her daughter reading a book by a Muggle author.

It had been painful to watch Cedrella begging her to forget the whole thing. Rosalind had quickly reassured her she had no intention of running to Lysandra Black with the story. Upon hearing that Rosalind was not planning to tell her mother about the incident, she'd thanked Rosalind and ran away without asking for her book back.

Rosalind had kept the book and read it over the next week. She occasionally indulged in Muggle books of fiction, but she'd never gotten around to reading about the boy who never grew up. It was a charming story; she could tell why Cedrella had been so immersed in it. On whim, Rosalind had Transfigured the book cover into _The Importance of Blood Purity_ and decided to return it to Cedrella.

She had turned white as a ghost when the Black house elf had announced Rosalind. Lysandra had simply been surprised to see a Potter come to visit since their families were hardly on good terms. Rosalind had returned Cedrella's book and watched the relief cross the girl's features when she'd seen that the true cover had been concealed.

On another whim, Rosalind had offered to tutor Cedrella in history, writing, and mathematics before she began her education at Hogwarts. She was scheduled to start the upcoming school year and it was always an advantage to refresh her understanding of basic skills.  
Lysandra had agreed to the arrangement easily enough, probably because Rosalind's blood purity would never be in question. She was a direct descendent of the legendary Peverell brothers and she was related to most Pureblood Wizarding families in England.

Thankfully, Cedrella was at least more intelligent than Lysandra. She was a studious child who loved reading and was eagerly waiting to start her education at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, growing up with Lysandra had thought her to think of Muggles as savages, which made her think that her fascination with Muggle fiction (Muggles in general, actually) was deviant. At first, Rosalind had tried to convince her there was nothing wrong with enjoying Muggle fiction, but Cedrella became withdrawn and quiet whenever Rosalind tried to discuss the subject.

Rosalind decided to stop trying to openly discuss the issue and started discreetly slipping Muggle literature in camouflaged covers to Cedrella instead. For written assignments, Rosalind slipped questions about Jane Austen in between questions about magic theory and Goblin conflicts. It felt like she was having a secret friendship with the child, even though she was allowed to spend time with her twice a week. It brought a degree of safe mystery and intrigue to Rosalind's sheltered life. She hoped their illicit studies brought Cedrella as much happiness as they brought her.

"Aunt Rosalind," Cedrella put down her quill and looked up at her. She was an exceptionally pretty girl, with thick brown hair that fell to the small of her back in loose curls and hazel eyes flecked with green.

If they’d met at Hogwarts, Rosalind might have been a little jealous of her. As it was, she hoped Cedrella's good looks never brought her trouble.

"I have a secret,” Cedrella continued, smiling a tiny, satisfied smile.

"Oh?" Rosalind asked. Was Cedrella ready to vocalize her love for Muggle literature, or was there another “bad” habit she wanted to confess to?

Cedrella got up and walked over to the armchair Rosalind was using. She pulled out a necklace from under her bright green dress and held it up towards the light. It was holding a ring with a stone engraved with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

"I won it from my sister last Christmas," explained Cedrella.

"Where did your sister get it?" asked Rosalind, pitching her tone low and secretive.

"Mother gave it to her after her first year at Hogwarts," Cedrella responded. "It was a reward for being sorted into Slytherin."

Rosalind smiled. Heirlooms modeled after the legendary Hallows were common, especially among Pureblood families. The stone was particularly popular because it was easier to create a "genuine" approximation of it. Demiguise were hard to find, so making believable replicas of the Invisibility Cloak was difficult. The Elder Wand, for obvious reasons, was even harder to fake. No witch or wizard wanted to disfigure their wand in an attempt to make it look like a legend.

"Where did your mother get it from?"

"From my grandmother," Cedrella answered. "It's a family heirloom. I won it in a game of wizard's chess. Mother will be very angry if she discovers Callidora has been gambling with it."

"Will she be angry at you as well?" asked Rosalind gently.

"She usually is," Cedrella said and then shrugged. "But Callidora has to leave me alone while I have it. She's not used to making Mother upset!"

Rosalind was about to ask her what Lysandra did when she was upset, but the family house elf interrupted them with a loud pop. "Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Harry Riddle are here to see you, Mistress Rosalind," said Hattie, bowing so deeply her nose almost touched the floor.

Cedrella quickly hid her necklace again.

"You can bring them here," said Hattie. "Thank you."

While Cedrella gathered her scrolls, Rosalind tried to figure out why on Earth Albus Dumbledore would pay her a visit - and without owling first! By the time the man trailed into the room behind Hattie, Rosalind had considered the wild possibility that blasted Binns ghost had moved on and she would be offered a teaching position at Hogwarts and also berated herself for foolish flights of fantasy. Binns would outlast the Earth itself.

Professor Dumbledore looked as slick as ever; shame that Rowena Potter (Rosalind’s simple but elegant mother) wasn’t home to titter over him goodnaturedly. The same couldn’t be said for the teen boy following Professor Dumbledore. He wasn’t ugly, per se, but he wore what looked like old Muggle clothes that did little to flatter his lanky figure. Nevertheless, he carried himself with the kind of confidence a first born Pureblood son might spend years learning.

"Ms. Potter," Professor Dumbledore said. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. This Harry Riddle," he said, gesturing towards the boy.

"Welcome," said Rosalind, then remembered to curtsy. "This is my niece, Cedrella Black." Upon being introduced, Cedrella curtsied as well, managing to look more regal and elegant than Rosalind. "She'll be starting at Hogwarts next September."

"We'll be happy to have her," said Dumbledore, smiling down at Cedrella, who bowed after Rosalind ordered Hattie to take her to the the gardens.

She invited Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Riddle to sit in armchairs opposite to hers once Hattie had Disapparated with Cedrella. "What brings you here, gentleman?"

"We could use your expertise," Professor Dumbledore answered. Rosalind wondered why they would need information on legends of the Wizarding World. "What can you tell us about the Deathly Hallows?"

"That's curious," answered Rosalind. "You're the second man to come and ask me about that particular legend today."

Professor Dumbledore did not seem to react but Mr. Riddle leaned forward in his armchair. He tried to meet Professor Dumbledore's gaze, who continued to stare at Rosalind with distinctly neutral expression.

Professor Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Mr. Riddle spoke first. "You were at the Leaky Cauldron today, no?"

"Yes, I was," she answered and directed her gaze at him. "How did you know?"

"I'm a server there," he said. Rosalind was going to protest that she hadn't seen him, but he spoke before she could do so. "I was in the backroom. Annie—one of the other servers—told me."

Rosalind narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. "Why would she tell you I was there?"

Harry blushed and looked away. "Um . . ."

"The man you were with," Professor Dumbledore interjected. "Mr. Riddle's friend was concerned with him."

"Oh," said Rosalind, smiling at the memory of a pleasant lunch with a person who’d been genuinely interested in her work. "Yes, he was quite handsome."

Professor Dumbledore smiled. "Can you tell us about him?"

"I'm afraid there isn't much to tell," Rosalind answered. "His name is Arenvald Adalhard. He's tall, blond, and has blue eyes, visiting from Germany, and wants to do research on the similarities between English and German folklore among witches and wizards."

"Does that sound like him?" Mr. Riddle asked Professor Dumbledore.

"It's hard to say," Professor Dumbledore answered. "He's an expert at disguises and an excellent actor and it would be foolish to assume this man's appearance is only a coincidence."

"If he's out looking for rumors, then it means that he's not close to getting the Hallows," Mr. Riddle said cautiously.

"Gentlemen," Rosalind interjected. She hated it when men started talking like she wasn't in the room. "If you would be so kind as to include me in the conversation, what exactly is happening?"

"Our apologies," Professor Dumbledore said with a polite smile. Rosalind could not help but think that he was more amused than sorry. "We're worried that a dangerous wizard has come to England to look for the Deathly Hallows. We believe he's the man who visited you earlier today."

"I don't understand," Rosalind said. "Why would a criminal be interested in a myth?"

"Because he believes they're real," Mr. Riddle told her.

"That's absurd," Rosalind said quickly. If Professor Dumbledore wasn't one of the visitors, she'd assume someone was having a laugh at her expense.

"Perhaps," Professor Dumbledore agreed. "However, Gellert Grindelwald believes it to be true and it does not make him any less powerful. It probably makes him more dangerous."

"Did you tell him anything about the Hallows?" Mr. Riddle asked.

"I told him much of the legend," Rosalind said. "There isn't much to tell beyond that. Though I did discuss the plethora of families who believe their heirlooms are in fact Deathly Hallows. My own grandmother is convinced our Invisibility Cloak is one." She smiled fondly.

"You didn't actually give him anything, did you?" asked Mr. Riddle.

"Of course not," Rosalind said. "He didn't ask for anything either, though he inquired about a grimoire I found pertaining to the Hallows. I've mentioned it in passing in some publications."

"I assume you didn't show it to him," Professor Dumbledore said.

"No," Rosalind said. "I've placed it on the family vault at Gringotts. It's a very old book and quite valuable among collectors."

"Did Mr. Adalhard take that well?" asked Professor Dumbledore.

"He said he understood and asked to see my notes on the subject," Rosalind said. "I saw no reason to refuse him that much. We agreed to collaborate on future research."

"You have to be careful," Mr. Riddle spoke again. "He already attacked me and my friends. A man died."

"You're certain it was this Grindelwald?" Rosalind asked.

"Very few things in this world are certain," Professor Dumbledore started, “but I know Grindelwald is in England and that he’s obsessed with the Deathly Hallows. I would appreciate it if you contacted me before meeting Mr. Adalhard again. For you own safety. May I see the research you shared with Mr. Adalhard?"

Rosalind hesitated. "All right," she said after a few seconds. "I'll owl you a copy of the report I sent him tonight."

"Can I get a copy too?" asked Mr. Riddle.

She almost said no. It was one thing to share unpublished research with a fellow scholar or with a respected professor from Hogwarts. It was much riskier to share it with an unknown pub server. Though in all honesty, Rosalind’s work was hardly of any monetary value. Wizards so no reason to study fake magic when they had real magic at their fingertips. "I expect you not to share my research with anyone who might try to sell it or publish it, Mr. Riddle," she said.

"No, of course not," Mr. Riddle said quickly. "Thank you."

Rosalind nodded at him again and consoled herself with the knowledge that her research had little monetary value. He would not gain much even if he broke his word.

Soon enough, Riddle was begging off to return to his job, which prompted Professor Dumbledore to complain about the piles and piles of essays he still had to grade. After they Disapparated, Rosalind went back to her room and pulled out the small looking Hallowed Grimoire.

She'd never placed it at Gringotts because she didn't consider it worth so much that someone would risk breaking into the Potter manor to get it. As an extra precaution, she'd made sure to say that she had placed it at Gringotts to anyone who cared enough to ask. Before today, very few people had actually cared.

History of magic didn't attract the attention of many people and Rosalind's work was further ignored because she had a habit of comparing Wizarding folklore to Muggle folklore. Wizards hated anything that suggested they had anything in common with Muggles. Nevertheless, Rosalind loved her work, especially when she found similarities between Muggle and magical legends. The plain truth was that Muggles and wizards were obsessed with similar concepts.

Both cultures dreamed of conquering death, for example.

It was therefore not surprising when some otherwise intelligent wizards convinced themselves that the Hallows were real. When Rosalind first found the Hallowed Grimoire, she assumed it was as small as it looked. The book was a simple and bound in black leather. It was twelve centimeters long and ten centimeters wide. From the outside, it looked like it seemed to be a hundred pages, at most. However, when Rosalind began to read it, she found that the book didn't seem to end.

She'd had been reading for two years. The more she read, the more outlandish the book became. Deciphering it wasn't easy and it often took her months of research to understand even one page. Not all pages were in English and some were covered entirely by seemingly random sequences of numbers. What Rosalind managed to decipher usually made very little sense.

One section claimed that the master of all three Hallows would be able to control the minds of massive armies. Another said that the Elder Wand had the power to create endless supplies of gold. The latest one Rosalind had managed to decipher claimed that the Resurrection Stone allowed the owner to travel across space and time.

The absurdity of the claims didn't really surprise Rosalind. Myths were a result of human beings allowing themselves to entertain the most fanciful of notions. What surprised Rosalind was the complexity of the magic used to compile the Hallowed Grimoire. She theorized the Grimoire had more than one author since several different pages referred to historical events separated by centuries.

It meant that several brilliant people throughout history had wasted their talents penning incoherent instructions in a secret book that few people could hope to understand. They hadn't even signed their names.

It was wasteful, in a way. Rosalind obviously did not consider the study of history and culture wasteful, but the authors of the Hallowed Grimoire had not shared their intelligence with the world and it was depressing to imagine brilliant people losing themselves in an empty legend.

Rosalind thought of Mr. Adalhard. She hoped Professor Dumbledore was wrong and he had nothing to do with Grindelwald. She hated to think of such a nice man falling victim to the legend of the Hallows.

* * *

When Harry got back to the Leaky Cauldron, the dinner rush hour was in full swing. Tom owled Mrs. Wilkins because they'd expected to be shorthanded and she'd agreed to take Tommy for the night. Harry hoped that she kept him until next afternoon so he could get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not that he thought he'd really be able to calm himself enough to rest.

He told Annie he would take the backroom, mostly because he wanted to avoid customers at all costs. Now that he knew Grindelwald was spending time in the pub, he was afraid he would explode at the next customers who decided to bargain for lower prices no matter how much Harry insisted that he had no control over the cost of meals. Thankfully, Tom decided to stick around and help until the worst of the crowd was gone. Harry still could not prepare orders as quickly as Annie, Tom, and Mrs. Wilkins could.

Tom tried to ask Harry about Dumbledore, but Harry kept his answers vague and short. He told Tom that Dumbledore was studying Muggleborns and that he wanted Harry to keep their conversations confidential. Harry got the idea after he remembered Rosalind Potter telling him that she wanted to keep her work relatively private.

Harry was cleaning up the counter by the time Annie shuffled into the backroom and sat down by the large table that dominated most of the room. She sighed heavily and removed her shoes. Harry finished with the counter and then filled a cup with cold water and passed it to her. He took off his glasses and hopped onto the table. He'd decided to tell Annie the truth after his meeting with Dumbledore, but he didn't know how to start.

Dumbledore obviously hadn't believed him but it didn't bother Harry too much. The important thing was Dumbledore agreed to help. He didn't care if Dumbledore thought he was insane as long as he was willing to handle Grindelwald.

Harry doubted he would feel the same way if Annie didn't believe him, even if she continued helping him. It was likely that she'd insist that he go to St. Mungo's. Worst, she might start thinking he wasn't fit to take care of Tommy.

Why was he so fixated on telling Annie the truth anyway? What would it accomplish, besides soothing his own guilty conscience? Had seeing Dumbledore, and getting confirmation yet again that the old bastard had never seen him as anything more than a tool really reduced into such a bundle of needy desperation?

Obviously, this Dumbledore didn't know him and had not exactly offered his friendship, not that they’d ever been friends. He'd hadn't done much to deal with Harry's Grindelwald problem either. He'd agreed to help but it turned out that he couldn't just snap his fingers and make Grindelwald disappear. Harry just berated himself for expecting so much from Dumbledore after so many years of disappointment.

Annie finished drinking all the water and laid her head on the table. Harry busied himself wiping his glasses even though they were clean. He might as well admit to himself that he was afraid to talk to Annie. It was probably best that he didn't do it tonight anyway. She looked really tired.

Harry hopped off the table and went to fix himself a sandwich. He was stalling and he knew it. Annie was always tired, true; but when wasn’t she? Both of them usually were. If there was ever a good time to have a conversation, it was after dinner rush hour. The pub was practically a graveyard until breakfast. It was why it was called the graveyard shift. Annie and Harry usually spent the whole night cleaning and preparing the pub for the next day.

He was still trying to work up the courage to tell Annie the truth when she spoke. "The Aurors were here earlier. The Riddles are missing."

Harry looked back at her and frowned. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

"What was _supposed_ to happen, Harry?" she asked, holding his gaze.

"Nothing. They were supposed to be all right for a long time still. Something's changed," Harry said, then gulped down some Butterbeer.

"Do you know what happened to them?"

". . . Grindelwald," Harry told her. "It's the only thing I can think of."

"What's changed?"

Harry sighed and finished his Butterbeer. It was now or never. Annie had a right to know how dangerous associating with him was.

"Two months ago, I went to confront a powerful Dark wizard," he started, "I was going to let him kill me. I _did_ let him kill me. Then I woke up . . . outside the orphanage where Tommy was born. That was in 1997. When I died, I mean."

Annie's face was expressionless. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look so blank. Finally she sighed and put her head in her hands. "What can you possibly be hiding that you'd rather sound crazy than tell me about it?"

"I'm not lying!" Harry said quickly and hurried sit next to her on the table again. "And I'm not crazy either. Please, you have to believe me."

"Who's this Grindelwald?" Annie asked him. Harry could tell she didn't believe him about the time travelling.

"He's a Dark wizard," Harry told her quickly. "Wants to gather the Deathly Hallows to take over the Muggle world. But, Annie, I'm from the future. Remember the clothes I was wearing when you met me? Everyone young wears them in my time!"

Annie shook her head, then looked straight at him. "Will you let me take you to St. Mungo's?"

"Damn it, I'm not crazy!" Harry got up and started pacing back and forth. He heard Annie sigh again.

"Are you even related to Tommy?"

"Yes," Harry said. It was true. Voldemort had made it so. "He's the only one who can stop the Dark wizard I told you about."

"Grindelwald?"

"Voldemort," Harry stopped pacing and sat in front of Annie again. "You wanted to know why I didn't want to answer any questions about my past. Now you know."

Annie sighed again and crossed her arms. "What about Grindelwald?"

"Dumbledore says he's been coming to the pub," Harry said. "I don't know what he wants from me. I don't even know how he knows about me."

"Is Dumbledore going to help you?"

"Yes," Harry said. He was about to start explaining what Dumbledore told him to do when a grey owl flew in through the window and dropped a bundle of parchments in front of Harry. It was the research Rosalind Potter had agreed to share with him. If there was ever a good time for an interruption . . . Harry would send her a thank you note first thing in the morning. It would give Lien something to do, if nothing else.

"What is it?" Annie asked.

"It's from Rosalind Potter," Harry answered. "She's some kind of magic legends expert. We went to see her today. This is what she knows about the Deathly Hallows." He passed her one of the parchments.

"Are you really a Potter?" Annie asked.

"Yes, but they obviously don't know me," Harry answered. Most of the things written in the parchment were about all the families who claimed their heirlooms were Deathly Hallows. "Do you believe me?" he asked Annie.

"I believe that you believe what you're saying," she answered.

It was more than Harry had dared to hope for.

Annie looked the parchment over and then returned it to Harry. "We can't do this now, there's work to be done for tomorrow."

Harry expected her to ask him some questions, but Annie remained silent for the rest of the evening. He took it as an opportunity to plan what to do next.

All his life, Harry had tried his best to avoid confrontation. His magic had never been aggressive, even when he'd been a child terrified of being caught by Dudley. When Hagrid told him that he was some kind Wizarding World hero, he'd been confused and apprehensive. Even when he thought Sirius responsible for his parents' death, he'd only engaged in vague fantasies of revenge. Harry knew he just wasn't violent person.

By the time he'd gotten a little proactive, it'd been too little to learn much fighting skills. He'd never been much of a match for any of the stronger Death Eaters. He supposed he was lucky that all he'd had to do in the end was let Voldemort kill him because it's not like he could have done much else. He just hoped that he'd done enough so that Ron and Hermione were alright, wherever they were.

The only thing he could do now was try to stay alive long enough to prevent Voldemort's rise to power. And he couldn't do that if Grindelwald killed him before Tommy was old enough to talk. Harry's natural instinct was to wait around for Grindelwald to do something and hope that he survived it.

Or he could actually try and be somewhat prepared to fight.

The first thing he needed to do was start learning as much as he could about the Deathly Hallows. According to Rosalind Potter, almost every Pureblood family in England had a trinket they claimed was a Hallow. Grindelwald wouldn't have much luck there at least. Not that getting the Hallows seemed to be his primary goal anyway. If it was, why didn't he just steal the Invisibility Cloak? No, it seemed like Grindelwald's new objective was to make Harry's life as difficult as possible.

Second, he needed to find a way to make himself a better fighter.

Unfortunately, he had no idea how to go about it. Was he supposed to learn more dueling spells? It would hardly help him against Grindelwald. And even if he had enough raw power to ever be a match for some genius Dark wizard, who was going to teach him? Dumbledore? Harry wouldn’t even bother to ask. Besides, he already knew the Disarming Charm, the Stunning Spell, and the Silencing Charm. If he was quick enough, it would be enough in most fights.

There was one little thing he could do. It probably wouldn't help him against Grindelwald himself, but it would help him against Grindelwald's minions, especially if they were all as incompetent as the ones in the brewery had been. Harry had to become physically stronger.

Ideally, he would be a good enough physical fighter to take some wizards by surprise. Most of them didn't bother to learn much outside of formal dueling, so a punch or two would probably surprise them enough to buy Harry a few extra seconds. Luckily, Owen was knew how to fight. He would probably be willing to teach Harry if he asked. Technically, Owen owed him a huge favor.

* * *

 When Annie told Owen that Harry said he was a time traveler, Owen assumed he traveled from the past. Annie was convinced that Harry was being affected by some kind of curse, but Owen didn't see why time travelling was impossible when wizards could appear and disappear in the blink of an eye. What he didn't understand was why someone would want to go back instead of forward. Owen never had a chance to learn much about history, but his father had always said life had been harder in his youth. If Owen could travel in time, he would go into the far future to see if things would keep getting better.

Annie seemed to think that Harry was loose in the head, but Owen really doubted it. He'd seen crazy men fight; they were erratic, wasteful, and panicky. Most of them tried to project an aura of confidence and became reckless and overly aggressive. Harry hadn't been like that at all.

The good news was that Annie had agreed to set a day for the wedding and they agreed to do the deed on September, right before her parent's anniversary. The bad news was that she hadn't looked particularly happy about it. Owen tried to ignore a pang of remorse. He'd planned a romantic dinner when he first decided to ask Annie to set a wedding date, but ever since the brewery he couldn’t shake the fear that life was getting away from him. He'd just gotten up some days ago feeling that he needed to finalize his plans with Annie before they both ran out time.

Owen had decided to ask Annie to bring Harry whenever they both had some free time. Maybe he just needed to talk to someone about what he'd done and Harry was the only one available for chatting about the incident. Fortunately, Annie assumed that Owen just wanted to ask Harry about the future.

"Maybe it's a good idea," she'd said before taking off. "I can't ask him about it without losing patience."

He knew he wouldn't lose patience. Owen did have many questions, but he also knew how to fade into the background and simply observe. It was no easy feat for a tall, muscular black man but Owen knew just how to do it. It was a skill that took perseverance and the willingness to just let things happen. He waited for almost a week before Annie brought Harry without even mentioning the subject to her.

"Annie said you wanted to talk to me," Harry said while looking at Owen's boxing medals. They were actually made of smooth rocks since the street league couldn't afford silver or gold to make proper medals. Owen liked them better than the real deal. Every single one of them medals looked different, just like every fight he'd ever won had been different.

"Did you ever find out anything about the guy I killed?" he asked, then winced. He'd been planning to ask about sports of the future.

"He was just a random wizard Grindelwald mind-controlled into attacking us," Harry answered. He turned to look at Owen. "Didn't Annie tell you?"

Owen shook his hand. The truth was that he avoided the subject with Annie as much as possible. Owen really hated lying to her, and he was pretty sure she could tell when he was doing it. "Who was he?"

"I don't know," Harry said. He walked over and sat in front of Owen. "It’s better not to think about it. Easier to forget him if he's just some guy."

"Why did you take the blame for it?" Owen asked.

"I didn't know what the Aurors would do to a Muggle who killed a wizard," he said. "It was a favor to Annie."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"No," Harry said. "But I've seen enough dead people that I'm kind of used to it." He looked away. "That's awful to say, but it's the truth."

"There was a war in the future?"

Harry looked up at Owen's face. "You believe me?"

"I don't know why I'm expected to accept appearing and disappearing but turn my up my nose at time travel," Owen said.

Harry smiled for the first time since Owen met him.

Owen grinned at him before sobering up again. "Do things get better in the future?"

"The Muggles fought many wars. There's another huge one coming up in the late 30s. Grindelwald was around then but Dumbledore beats him," Harry sighed. "Then Voldemort - he killed my parents, disappeared for a while. Then he came back and Dumbledore was killed. Then he killed me and I turned up here."

"I'm sorry," Owen said. He'd been devastated when his parents died, but they'd been killed in an accidental fire. It would have been much worse if someone had actually killed them. "Who raised you?"

"My aunt and uncle," Harry answered, leaning back on his chair. "They were afraid of magic and tried as hard they could to snuff it out of me. Then I went to Hogwarts and I was really happy for a while. I didn't get to finish though."

Owen wasn't surprised that Harry's life had been difficult but he was saddened to hear that the rest of the world wasn't going in the right direction. "Are things ever going to get better?"

"I think a lot of Muggles will have TVs in ten years or so," Harry said.

"What's a TV?" Owen asked.

Harry laughed and looked so happy that Owen started to laugh with him, though nothing about the situation warranted such a reaction. Once they started, they didn't manage to stop until they were both doubled over with their arms crossed over their stomachs.

"I haven't laughed like that in a while," Harry said. "Listen, try to forget about the wizard you killed Owen. You were just defending yourself. It's not your fault they were all confused by magic."

"I didn't think it was possible for me to really hurt someone with magic powers," he said.

"If you can dodge the curses, then you would be okay against most wizards," Harry said. "Just remember they're only human if you ever get into a fight with one again."

"Can you teach me how wizards fight?" Owen asked. He wanted to feel safe again. It was unlikely that he'd ever be a real threat to a wizard, but didn't want to be a nuisance if something like what happened at the brewery ever happened again. Knowing a potential opponent's technique and fighting style was always the first step in beating him.

". . . Can you teach me to be faster and stronger?" Harry asked.

"Anyone can learn to box," Owen said. "Though you'll probably always be skinny."

"Then I guess we help each other out," Harry said and looked off into space.


	7. Chapter 7

Before he could improve his brawling skills, Harry needed to increase his endurance. Owen noticed right away that his reflexes and reaction times were excellent, but he couldn't push his body beyond its comfort zone without a proper rush of adrenaline and those wore off in minutes. After their first attempt at training together, Owen asked him if he'd ever played any sports.

"I was a Seeker for Gryffindor house," he'd answered. "Annie ever tell you about Quidditch?"

Harry probably honed his impressive reflexes while chasing for a small golden ball. Unfortunately, it apparently didn't take a lot of strength to fly around because Harry became exhausted relatively easily so Owen decided that Harry should start jogging to improve his endurance. Since both Harry and Owen were working almost all the time, it wasn't easy for him and Owen to coordinate their schedules. They only managed to meet twice a week for jogging.

It didn't go well at first, which frustrated Harry a great deal. Owen hadn't been surprised though. Most people didn't really understand how difficult it was to keep a moderate running pace for more than a few minutes. Once Harry accepted that exercise was initially painful and a little humiliating, he'd begun to improve relatively quickly. Still, actually learning how to fight was a sluggish process.

Owen found an abandoned garaged at the edge of London with plenty of room to practice away from wandering eyes. The first time they attempted to train together, Harry hadn't been able to dodge a single mock-punch or kick from Owen. He'd also been out breath in less than ten minutes. Owen hadn't even been striking at full speed.

In contrast, Owen learned to dodge Harry's spells and curses pretty quickly. Most of the glowing projectiles moved in a straight line, after all. Owen had expected them to chase him at first but their trajectory was usually linear. He quickly realized that if he moved out of the way, the projectiles would pass him by harmlessly.

By the end of their first training section, Owen was much more concerned about spells that weren't followed by obvious blobs of glowing magic. Harry admitted that he didn't know many of those, but assured Owen that most dueling spells involved obvious lights and sparkles. Which was mostly true, really. How many wizards out there knew Legilimency? In the end, Owen decided to put the silent and invisible ones out of his mind since there wasn’t much he could do about them besides hoping that no one would ever try to use any against him. Preferably, he'd never have to be in a fight with wizards ever again.

Since the training sessions were being helpful, Owen decided to invite Annie to join them. Unlike Harry, she wasn't particularly interested in fighting. Owen did manage to convince her to let Harry teach her some dueling by saying he’d feel better if she had some idea about how to defend herself against violent wizards. She still didn't really believe Harry's time travel story, but she knew Grindelwald really was sniffing around the Leaky Cauldron. By the second week of training sessions, she'd joined the training routine.

Harry started using his money to buy magic books so he and Annie could improve their offensive and defensive spell work. Owen couldn't really participate when Annie and Harry practiced spells, but he made sure to pay attention to what the different incantations did and how they looked. He asked which spells wouldn't go past trees, walls, or any other type of non-magical barrier. It never hurt to be prepared.

While Annie and Harry actually practiced the different spells, Owen busied himself with keeping Tommy entertained.

By the third month of training, all three of them had improved considerably. Annie found that she was much better at magical shields and basic healing spells. She tried hard, but she didn't seem to be able to put all her heart into aggressive spells. Owen didn't really think it was something to worry much about. It was better that she was good at shielding and healing. Maybe it would encourage her to focus on escaping if she ever found herself in a real duel again.

Owen didn't think he'd become a better boxer exactly, but he'd certainly become more agile. Harry's speed had increased in unexpected ways thanks to all his attempts to catch Owen with Stunning Spells. He could know cast magic faster and without having to say the spells too clearly. It was making it harder for Owen to dodge. At first, he'd simply been able to look at where Harry aimed and prepared to move or duck before he even fired his spell. The guessing games where improving his reaction times and dodging speeds. His boxing friends told him that he was turning all his fights into sprint matches.

One area Harry wasn't really improving much was strength. Running was beginning to give him a more muscled frame, but he was still relatively thin. Harry just didn't have enough mass to pack much of a punch. Owen tried to focus on teaching him how to aim his punches so that he caused damage with relatively little force. A punch to the neck hurt even if the person throwing it wasn't overly strong. It would help Harry in most fights, but a good boxer obviously knew how to cover the more vulnerable spots.

It meant that Harry didn't really have much of a chance against Owen unless he was using magic. Harry tried not to let it show, but Owen could tell that he was frustrated at how little hope he had of ever winning in a fight without magic. They both found out just how much it bothered him on a day they were training alone. Annie had decided she needed a break and took Tommy out for a walk since he'd also been acting a little restless.

Owen and Harry decided to pass the time in a friendly brawl. Harry was already fit enough to spend a good hour dodging Owen's half-hearted punches and trying to land a few hits of his own. Though he'd gotten better, he still couldn't do much damage to Owen even when he managed to hit. The sparring matches were enjoyable anyway. Owen was laughing good naturedly at Harry's increasing frustration when he suddenly felt like something was squeezing his skull. He grabbed his head and let out a short scream before he fell to his knees and everything went black.

He woke up struggling with the worst headache of his life. Harry was hovering over him with his wand on hand.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I don't know what happened . . ."

Owen tried to sit up just to make sure that he could. Thankfully, the pain wasn’t affecting his balance. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, relieved that the pain was ebbing as quickly as it’d struck.

"Why did you . . ."

Why had Harry used such nasty magic when they’d agreed to a magic-free spar? He'd never done something remotely similar before.

"I didn't mean to," Harry said and bit his lower lip. "I didn't know I could."

Owen was shaken even though the pain was almost entirely gone. Harry probably hadn't done it on purpose considering he looked guilty enough to make Owen want to comfort him. He let Harry look at him anxiously without accepting his apology anyway. Eventually, Harry got up to get him a cup of water. Owen took it from him without a word.

"Can all wizards do that?" If they could, then Owen had been wasting his time. No amount of speed would help him survive a fight against any wizard who could instantly render him unconscious with a thought.

"No!" Harry said and then rubbed his forehead with his right hand. "I mean . . . wandless magic is very hard. We can use it instinctively if we're scared enough but it usually just help us escape. . . I don't know what just happened."

Owen was used to accidental sparring injuries. Sometimes, people got into a playful fights, forgot their own strength, and accidentally injured each other. It had even happened to the two of them on some occasions. But Harry had never used any magic to seriously hurt Owen though. He usually stuck to stunning and paralysis (Owen really hated the Full Body-Bind Curse). He finished his water and sighed heavily.

"Were you just scared?" he asked. Owen doubted it. Harry had looked irritated and, for a second, angry.

"No," Harry said. "I was . . ." He shook his head. "Do you want to go to St—to a hospital?"

"No," Owen answered. "The pain is gone." In fact, it was like he'd never felt it.

"I’m sorry," Harry said again. "I've never done anything like that before."

Owen could see that Harry's remorse was sincere but he also remembered the genuine look of resentment when they'd been sparring. Owen would probably be less unsettled if Harry had just looked determined to get a hit instead of looking like he'd wanted Owen in pain. He got up and stretched his legs. It really was like he'd never been in pain the first place. There was no sluggish, pulsing residue of hurt in his head. His could rotate his neck with painless ease.

Maybe he was overreacting because magic had truly scared him for the first time in weeks. Harry had never given him any reason to be really afraid of him before. He'd never fired any spells at him without warning and he always explained what the spell he was using would do if it hit before firing it. Owen decided that Harry had just carried away because of a simple bad mood. How many times had Owen whaled on a less experienced boxer during training thanks to a foul mood? Probably more times than he would like to admit. Harry had probably lashed out instinctively due to frustration.

Finally, he smiled at Harry. "Don't worry about it," he said and waved his hand dismissively. "Accidents happen."

Harry sighed and smiled back tentatively.

Owen was about to ask if wizards could learn to cause pain willingly but Annie walked back into the garage. Harry quickly put his wand way and Owen went over to greet her with a kiss. It was better that she didn't find out what had happened. She tended to be a worrier when it came to injuries and accidents.

Tommy raised his arms towards Owen and Annie passed him over. He spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Tommy while Harry and Annie went over accounting records from the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

For the last three months, Harry had been trying his hardest to trust that Dumbledore was dealing with Grindelwald. He had to learn to deal with customers again since he couldn't expect Annie to mind the counter all the time.

Soon enough, he'd been able to restrict his displays of annoyance to acceptable levels if only because Annie didn’t deserve to be stuck with every hour of every shift. He'd also become proficient at most of the tasks involved in running the Cauldron, though he still deferred to Annie's lead in most occasions.

Dumbledore told him they really couldn't do much about Grindelwald until the bastard decided to show himself. Still, there had to be more to do than send owls to the families Rosalind had identified in her research warning them that a thief was interested in stealing their heirlooms.

"I told them that an illicit antiques trader was looking for loot to sell," Dumbledore said after sipping his tea. "They'd hardly take a madman looking for the Deathly Hallows seriously." They were having another late lunch in a different Muggle restaurant. The place was a brightly lit shop specializing in deserts. Dumbledore ordered them vanilla cake with chocolate frosting and cream filling.

"There’s really nothing else you could be doing?" Harry asked and ate a forkful of cake. It was so delicious it lightened his foul mood at Dumbledore's frustrating inaction.

"I've already told you that Gellert will not be found until he wishes to be found," Dumbledore said and waved a hand dismissively. "Even his presence at the Leaky Cauldron seems to be fading."

Harry had to admit that was a huge relief. "Can't you just follow that 'presence' until you find him?" he asked.

"And then what?" retorted Dumbledore. He kept on talking before Harry could suggest that Dumbledore could beat him in a duel and send him to Azkaban. "No. It's best we wait and see what his plans are."

"We know what his plans are!" Harry said. He sighed and tried to keep his eyes from rolling. "He wants the Deathly Hallows!"

"Gellert is not stupid enough to focus all his attentions on only one goal," Dumbledore said. "We need to discover what his broader ambitions are. The Ministry has been dealing with significantly more raids on Muggles for several weeks. I'm certain he's involved."

"You think he's already started recruiting for his army?" asked Harry.

"It's more likely that he's trying to foster chaos," answered Dumbledore. "The Aurors haven't managed to link the attacks to any specific source. Many of the attackers display symptoms of people whose moods and personalities have been altered by magic."

Harry frowned and put his fork down. If everyone was afraid, gathering genuine followers later would be much easier for Grindelwald. "Then isn't it even more important to find him and stop him?"

"A task that is much easier said than done," Dumbledore answered. He raised his hand to forestall Harry's protest. "I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, but I cannot just follow his magical trail. He would conceal himself if he realized I was actively pursuing him."

Harry stopped himself from asking if the reason Dumbledore couldn't feel Grindelwald at the Cauldron was because of he was concealing his magical presence. "So we just wait then?" he asked instead, picking up his fork again.

He couldn't help but remember how bad things had gotten when he'd just sat back and waited for Voldemort to do something. Maybe if he'd known about the Horcruxes from the beginning, he would have started looking for them and destroying them before Voldemort rose to power a second time.

"It's our most viable option," continued Dumbledore. "Unfortunately, my areas of expertise are Transfiguration and magical creatures. I have more connections among non-human magical communities than among wizards. Gellert has always been more concerned with Dark Magic and Muggle-wizard politics. Our interests haven't overlapped in decades."

Harry wasn't sure why Dumbledore sounded so bitter about that but opted not question him about it. He finished his cake and reached for his tea. He wished he'd paid more attention in History of Magic for what was probably the millionth time since he woke up in the past. Try as he might, all that Harry could remember about Grindelwald was that Dumbledore had defeated him in Europe sometime in the 1940s.

Dumbledore finished his own piece of cake and tea and reached into his uncharacteristically dark robes. Well, he reached into his dark Muggle suit, though Harry was still sure the old Dumbledore would’ve worn something much more garish. He pulled out some vials filled with liquid. "These are modified Confusing Concoctions," he said. "I'm worried that Gellert will lose patience soon and send some followers to attack you again. I've made these so they turn gaseous when they contact air. Throw them at enemies and they should become confused for long enough to give you a chance to run," Dumbledore passed Harry four vials filled with red potion. He finished his tea and stood up. Harry followed suit. "Don't inhale the red mist yourself, of course."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry. He realized he couldn't remember another time Dumbledore had done something so straightforward to help him. He wondered why he couldn't bring himself to feel more gratitude.

That meeting had been more than a week ago. Harry made sure to keep one of the red vials with him at all times, though he placed a hardening charm on it. The vial would only break if he threw it at someone with the intention of breaking it. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally drive himself into a confused frenzy. He'd given one of the vials to Annie since Grindelwald had also targeted her at the brewery.

Harry sighed and shifted on his bed a little. Guilt gnawed at his belly every time he remembered Annie was in Grindelwald’s radar only because of him.

Before he could lose himself in another cycle of endless questions, Tommy started banging the bell Mrs. Wilkins had given him against the floor. He was now old enough to sit without support for a significant amount of time.

Quite frankly, the only thing in Harry's life that was going consistently well was raising Tommy. He was going through a phase that prompted him to smile and gurgle whenever an adult paid him any attention, which Annie assured Harry was perfectly normal. Sure, the boy was mostly quiet and disinterested with Harry himself, but that actually suited Harry just fine. His only complaint was that Tommy was almost always bored. And he was very good and persistent about being loud when it suited him.

With some resignation, Harry looked over at the floor to see if Tommy actually needed anything. He doubted it since Tommy still cried whenever he was in any real discomfort.

Once Harry met his gaze, Tommy grinned and started banging his bell against the floor with even more enthusiasm, apparently delighted that he could now get Harry's attention without having to cry. But Harry was in no mood to play, so he used the summoning charm to get the bell away from Tommy and placed it on the bed.

Instead of losing interest, Tommy started screaming indignantly. Harry almost followed suit and started crying in frustration as well but he consoled himself with the realization that baby screams were less irritating than the sound of the bell. At least he was already used to the sound of a crying baby. He'd almost managed to tune Tommy out when he felt the damned bell fly away from the bed.

Tommy's cries suddenly got louder and Harry realized that the brat had summoned the bell and hit himself on the forehead with it.

Harry swore and mentally cursed Mrs. Wilkins for getting Tommy that stupid toy. He raced over to Tommy's side and picked him up, inspecting a small, red bruise on the baby’s forehead. Harry didn't think it looked too serious but he pointed his wand at Tommy's forehead and murmured Episkey anyway. The small bruise disappeared but Tommy didn't stop crying. Maybe is was a good sign that Tommy hadn't instinctively thrown a Reductor Curse at him.

"You're alright," he told the baby and headed back to the bed. He sat down and bounced Tommy on his thigh lightly. "You're alright."

Tommy didn't stop crying, so Harry summoned one of the baby books Mrs. Wilkins had gotten him. Tommy gradually calmed down when Harry started reading to him about the three little fairies that had to sew special blankets for newborn wizards.

Mrs. Wilkins insisted that reading to Tommy was necessary to help him learn how to speak and to increase his intelligence. As far as Harry was concerned, the world didn't need an even smarter Voldemort but reading stupid children's books out loud seemed to calm him down. Harry privately thought that it was the moving pictures he liked since reading to him without showing him the book didn't work.

Once Tommy was calmed enough, Harry leaned back on his pillows. He arranged Tommy next to him, where it’d be easy to reach him if necessary. Harry let Tommy examine the book and tried to rest - a difficult task when every random thought somehow led to Grindelwald and how he was supposed to deal with the bastard.

In a way, it was a relief that he wasn't spending all his time obsessing about watching Tommy for signs of evil. Harry still worried of course, but all the other people who spent time with Tommy thought he was adorable and goodnatured. Even Harry had to admit that Tommy was always smiling and rarely cried for extended periods of time. On a whim, Harry decided he wanted to stop by Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour before his next shift started.

He grabbed Tommy and headed downstairs. Luckily, May weather was warm enough that going out didn't involve wrapping Tommy in appropriate winter clothes. He would have invited Annie, but she was spending her break having fun with Owen. It was time that Harry followed her example and started doing something fun on his rare off times.

Lately, he spent all his time working, training, or taking care of Tommy. Waking up was always difficult and Harry was beginning to think it was because he rarely had anything to look forward to. Maybe he'd subconsciously attacked Owen because he was always so frustrated and depressed. He wanted to learn to control his emotions better since they had a habit of getting him into trouble. His inability to stop worrying about everything was at least part of the reason he was such a terrible Occlumens.

When he got to Florean's he ordered a medium vanilla sundae with a chocolate chunks and hot fudge. Once he paid, he went outside and in a public bench and resolved to enjoy the sunny weather. He ate his ice cream slowly and occasionally gave Tommy little pieces of chocolate. He briefly wondered if it would make him sick, but decided to risk it. At worst, he'd have to deal with a colicky baby later.

* * *

Septimus Weasley had always been the quietest of his brothers. Everyone tended to forget he was around even though he was tall and had bright red hair. He supposed that it never made him stand out because he'd always been around his brothers. They all had flaming red hair as well, and they usually competed against each other for attention. Septimus had always preferred to fade to the background and simply watch what was happening around him.

He'd never been much of a Quidditch player, his grades were only slightly above average, and his dueling skills were only acceptable. His gift was that he was observant. It was an invaluable skill for any Auror. Nevertheless, when he told his family that he wanted to apply for Auror training as soon as he graduated Hogwarts, they hadn't been able to hide their shock or skepticism. Septimus hadn't been insulted. He'd never given any indication that he wanted such a dangerous job.

He'd only decided it was what he wanted when he met Adrian Moody at the Seventh Year Career Seminar at Hogwarts. Most students—Septimus included—had expected the him to talk about the importance of dueling skills and Defense Against the Dark Arts knowledge for anyone who was interested in becoming an Auror. Instead, Moody talked about the importance of patience and good observational skills. Septimus decided then and there that it was a job he should at least attempt to do.

He'd prepared for the entrance exam during the summer after he finished Hogwarts and been extremely satisfied when he passed them in one try. His family had been mostly surprised. Septimus tried not to be too resentful about it. His family loved him and underestimated him only because he'd never given them any reason to think he was anything other than ordinary. And in all fairness to them, Septimus really hadn't been impressive in anything he'd ever tried.

He'd started training quickly and without much fuss right after the end of that summer even though his mother despaired he didn't have the temperament of an Auror.

The first thing Septimus learned was that he had the exact temperament to make a good Auror.

They rarely had to deal with actual Dark wizards, like most civilians assumed. The majority of their cases involved family feuds, usually over gold. Duels over women also happened often. For the most part, the lady in question didn't fancy either of the duelists.

For the first months, Septimus thought the majority of his career would involve talking to wizards who accidentally maimed or killed someone with clumsy Reductor Curses. Most of the time, the guilty party confessed or gave themselves away because of nervousness. Cases involving gold were slightly more difficult, but only because they entailed finding out whom among the victim's friends or family members was indebted to goblins. Still, Septimus was glad that his eye for details was proving to be very useful. Even Mr. Bolter grudgingly admitted that he had an "instinct" for the truth. If he was lucky, Septimus would be a full-fledged Auror when Mr. Bolter retired at the end of the year.

The nature of crimes remained relatively similar until the Leaky Cauldron servers were attacked at a Muggle brewery. The case baffled Septimus from the moment Mr. Bolter described it to him though Mr. Bolter had been less confused. He remembered having to deal with similar attacks on Muggle businesses during the food and supplies shortages caused by the Great Muggle War.

Despite Mr. Bolter's initial disinterest, Septimus had found strange discrepancies in the case from the start.

For starters, Muggle raids during the Great War were motivated by anger and hatred at Muggles. The wizards who attacked the Albright brewery had targeted Harry Riddle and Annie Moreau, albeit with accusations that they were punishing them for betraying the Wizarding World by trading with Muggles. To call it a nonsensical motivation was an understatement. A large number of wizards traded with Muggles directly, and virtually all traded with them indirectly. Where else were wizards supposed to get food from, if not Muggles?

Septimus had been the one to suggest that the surviving attackers be evaluated at St. Mungo's. Mr. Bolter had agreed mostly because he suspected that Riddle had used Memory Charms and Cunfundus Charms to frame the attackers for . . . something. It turned out that the attackers' minds had been altered—to think of Riddle and Moreau as enemies and by some method that the mediwitches and mediwizards couldn't identify.

Mr. Bolter had been forced to admit that Riddle wasn't directly responsible for the attack on the brewery. Instead, he decided that some rival criminal had tried to eliminate him by destroying the attackers' sanity. Mr. Bolter had known all three of the wizards who attacked the Albright brewery. He'd been friends with their families and he knew from the start they would not have staged a Muggle raid no matter how much they hated Muggles.

Septimus had been with him when they had to inform the dead one's family and watched as he tried to comfort them. It was understandable that Mr. Bolter felt so inclined to blame someone.

Maybe Mr. Bolter was just desperate for a workable lead. There had been four additional attacks since the incident at the Albright brewery. Each subsequent attack happened faster and involved more victims. The Obliviators were working overtime to keep watch on the affected Muggles since traumatic memories were harder to suppress. The Ministry was losing money repairing as much damage in the Muggle world as possible. St. Mungo's needed to spare personnel for hours after every attack.

Septimus was young, but he was beginning to understand the apprehension he noted among the older Aurors. If the culprits were not found, the Wizarding World would fall into chaos.

Despite his frustrations, Septimus wasn't ready to convince himself Riddle was more than tangentially related to the attack. Even when they discovered that Riddle didn't appear in Muggle or Ministry records, Septimus still didn't think he was directly to blame. There was something there, of course, but it just didn’t _feel_ like it had anything to do with the anti-Muggle raids. At least, not directly They hadn't been able to piece together Riddle's background, but he also hadn't been involved in any of the following raids. It was more likely that Riddle and Moreau were the first victims of the faction responsible. Whoever the real culprit was probably hadn't expected Riddle to be a good fighter.

When they arrived at the next crime scene, Septimus did his best to clear his mind. Another group of wizards had attacked a Muggle supplies store. The Aurors had been contacted by Obliviators when they realized that the wizards had revealed their magic to the Muggles on purpose. They'd been planning to kill them. Septimus wanted to look at the crime scene with as little biases as possible. Maybe he'd see something new if he wasn't looking for anything specific.

The Obliviators had the surviving Muggles Stunned and lying as comfortable as possible on the floor. The attackers who were still alive were also stunned and restrained by magical chains.

There had been four of them. One had been shot in the neck and bled out. Another one had been shot in the knee. A mediwitch had stopped the blood loss from the knee injury but the wizard who'd been shot in the neck was beyond help. Another mediwitch was mending a Muggle teenager's broken bones.

Septimus was standing over the corpse of a Muggle who'd been hit with several Severing Charms. There were pieces of skin and muscles strewn about him. Septimus kept going over the safety instructions he'd learn about Severing Charms on his second year at Hogwarts. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair before walking over to where Mr. Bolter was questioning one of the attackers.

"We will destroy the hands of our oppressors, one finger at a time," a middle aged man with graying brown hair was saying. His brown eyes were glazed over and he didn't seem to notice the blood oozing from a wound on his forehead. Mr. Bolter sighed and threw his hand in the air.

"They're getting worse," Mr. Bolter told Septimus as he passed over a silver coin. Septimus knew what symbol would be engraved on it before he even looked at it. "These guys look even more impaired than the last ones. They don't even know why they attacked these Muggles specifically." He got up and went to talk to one of the Obliviators.

Septimus sat down and looked at the attacker. "How long did it take you to plan your attack?"

"I've always planned and never fought," the man said while looking at the sky. "Then he came. He gave us the courage and showed us the way."

"Who?" Septimus asked though he knew better by now then to allow himself to hope.

"Maxwell," the man said with a sigh. "He taught us not to be afraid. We are the ones chosen to wield the powers of nature. Muggles are no better than animals. It's a travesty for us to hide from them."

"What did he look like?" Septimus tried again.

"He was stunning," the man said and looked at the sky again. "The power flowed through him like his whole body was a wand core."

Septimus sighed and went over to join Mr. Bolter. In any other circumstances, he would have laughed at such a description. It was always the same story with the raiders. They spoke of a quasi-religious mandate to overthrow "Muggle oppressors" and waxed poetically about a mysterious man who had given them the "courage" to fight. They could never give them a concrete description. It was always "he was beautiful" and "full of power" and "overflowing with grace" but no one knew what color his hair was.

"No worthwhile description again?" Mr. Bolter asked when Septimus joined him. The Obliviator was working on one of the Muggles.

"He was like a wand core," Septimus said put his head in his hand. "And his name was Maxwell this time."

Mr. Bolter was looking at the ground. "Riddle went to Florean's Ice Cream Parlour yesterday with the Riddle baby."

Septimus held back a deep sigh. "There's no evidence that he has anything to do with this," he started and help up his hand when Mr. Bolter opened his mouth. "Just because he has no documents doesn't mean he's a violent criminal. It could just be that he's family never registered him."

"He killed the Wilners' son," Mr. Bolter said.

"In self-defense!" Septimus said in a harsh whisper. "He claims he's a Muggleborn. As far as we can tell, his best friends are a Muggleborn and a Muggle. He adopted a Half-blood baby."

"That could be a trick," Mr. Bolter insisted. Septimus sighed again and got up to ask the Obliviator what the Muggles had said before they'd been stunned.

Mr. Bolter's obsession with Riddle was not normal. The real Riddles had disappeared, but no bodies had been found. There was another Muggle living in their mansion and he could produce the property's deed when asked. It was suspicious that the Riddles had moved just when Harry Riddle had appeared, but there was no concrete evidence that any laws had been broken.

Under any other circumstances, Septimus would have been determined to discover where Riddle came from as well. Unfortunately, they had to deal with whoever was staging Muggle raids. They didn't have time to waste on dead ends. If he was older, he'd have gone over Mr. Bolter's head and spoken to their superiors about his fixation with Riddle.

Septimus knew that all Aurors would side with Mr. Bolter because the man did have an impeccable record. He was a respected veteran who'd served throughout the years of the Great Muggle War. Originally, Septimus had been honored to be chosen to be his trainee. Mr. Bolter was chosen for this case because he had so much experience with raiders. No one would listen to him if he tried to say that Mr. Bolter was going bonkers. He'd probably be branded a rank-climbing traitor so he had no choice but to try and gather clues on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I now have a tumblr:
> 
> http://loudest-voice.tumblr.com/
> 
> Current topic of discussion: removal of my wisdom tooth. If you choose to follow me there, be ready for similarly riveting discussions in the future.


	8. Chapter 8

Albus finished grading the last first year paper on the procedure of turning a metal into another metal and leaned back on his chair. So many children were indignant that making gold and silver from cheaper materials was so very difficult. The more ambitious students insisted that they would turn coal to gold one day, so certain were they that if they thought hard and investigated long enough they’d find a way to do it.

Albus really loved children sometimes. When was the last time that he'd truly believed that he could do anything if he tried hard enough?

Not since the summer he spent with Gellert.

Albus stood up and looked out the window from his office in the first floor of the D. A. D. A. Tower. It was best he put the happy times with Gellert out of his mind. A confrontation with Gellert was inevitable and the bastard would try to manipulate Albus. Again. And Albus would be lying to himself if he said he didn't yearn for a companion who matched his intellect.

Strangely enough, Harry was proving to be quite entertaining. It wasn't because he was a genius, but because he was the only person in a long time who'd spoken to Albus with blatant disrespect. Like Abeforth, which made Albus feel like he was chewing on a tart piece of candy. Interesting, challenging, and sweet, but in a way that made Albus’ eyes water.

His relationship with Abeforth hadn't recovered after Ariana's death. Albus had to admit it was mostly his fault. He could never refrain himself from saying or doing something that insulted Abeforth whenever they got together. Abeforth’s rejection stung and try as he might, Albus couldn’t supress the urge to defend himself.

Anyway.

Harry also acted like he knew things that Albus didn't. It probably stemmed from his conviction that he was from the future, but Albus was lightened by it. People tended to look at him like he had all the answers just because he was good with a wand. If they didn’t maybe he wouldn’t have been so full of himself in his youth. he preferred it when people trusted themselves more than they trusted him. It was why Albus enjoyed his work with magical creatures so much. They didn't automatically assume that he was all-knowing simply because he was skilled at magic.

But despite Albus' skepticism, Harry maintained that he was from the future. The boy only despaired that he didn't know much about Gellert because he'd never paid any attention in History of Magic.

Time travel beyond a handful of minutes was impossible, but Albus was getting close to believing the boy anyway. He'd tried to find out more about Harry but kept running into the same dead ends. No one in Little Hangleton knew of him. He'd tried to find the Riddles but was informed that they'd moved sometime after Merope gave birth to her baby. Albus couldn't find out anything from Harry’s past, let alone any affiliation with Gellert.

Harry didn't give any details about his "future", but what little he said was worrying. He insisted that there would be another Great Muggle War, and that Gellert would use the political turmoil to start his own war in the Wizarding World. The technology that he said Muggles would develop was horrifying. Underwater ships that launched explosives to sink other ships? Explosives strong enough to rip through concrete? Bombs powerful enough to destroy entire cities in seconds? Planes flying over London and dropping explosives on the city?

It seemed that Harry had paid enough attention on Muggle history class. What he described was awful enough to make Albus revisit his idea that Muggles were too dangerous to be allowed free rein.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead lightly. That was exactly the kind of thinking that would make an argument with Gellert more difficult so Albus reminded himself that he didn't actually believe Harry.

Though he had briefly considered the possibility that Harry was some kind of seer and that's why he knew of Gellert's ambitions.

Genuine seers were few and far in between and most of them did not even realize what they were. Maybe Harry was experiencing visions of the future? Maybe they confused him enough to make him believe that he'd come from the future?

It wasn't clear whether seers saw explicit versions of the future or not. Maybe the awful Muggle weapons came from abstract visions? Another catastrophe might be coming, but Harry might also be exaggerating due to emotional distress.

It would be a compelling explanation if Albus could figure out where Harry has been for the last seventeen years.

Regardless, he'd been keeping a close eye on the Auror reports since Harry contacted him. The Muggle raids had Gellert's influence written all over them. He'd already been contacted by the healers at St. Mungo's because they could tell that the raiders' minds had been altered by magic, though they couldn't begin to explain how. Since Albus was a highly skilled Legilimens, they'd hoped that he would be able to examine their minds and diagnose them more precisely.

Albus saw the raiders and confirmed that the part of their minds that controlled their impulses had been highly eroded. The most troubling aspect of the whole situation was that Albus had not detected a great deal of magical interference in their minds. There were only faint traces of magic—traces so small that Albus could not even say with certainty if they were from Gellert or not.

It was possible that Gellert had somehow learned how to trigger the minds' degeneration with a small but specific push. Albus tried not to think of how many people he had experimented on to learn how to do it.

He should think about it, though. He'd need to remember Gellert's utter disregard for other peoples' lives the next time he confronted him.

In the meantime, Albus needed to work on extending his influence among witches and wizards, loath as he was to surrender his relatively uncomplicated life. He was well known among scholars and the general public grew fond of him when he published his travelling memoirs. He also had the prestige of being one of Hogwarts' esteemed professors. The only place he had no real influence was the Ministry of Magic itself.

It was no accident; Albus hated politics and generally stayed away from Ministry affairs.

Unfortunately, political influence would be the most important tool in opposing Gellert. Albus could match Gellert in a duel but Gellert was real threat off a battlefield. Even if Albus defeated him, the Wizarding World would probably spend decades recovering from the political turmoil he had already fostered.

Albus needed to find him fast; Harry had been right about that much. He'd only been England for about five months and the Ministry was already feeling the effects of his anti-Muggle machinations. Aurors, Obliviators, and Healers were running around like disorganized chickens. Soon, Muggle agencies would start dedicating time and money to “occult” affairs and Muggles loved their time and money way too much to be deterred by simple Confundus Charms for long. Especially if they started cooperating.

Albus had also made inquiries in Europe. Almost all European nations were currently dealing with anti-Muggle groups of varying levels of violence. The French Ministry of Magic had gone as far as assigning a whole squad of Aurors to reigning in wizards who engaged in risky schemes to cheat Muggle merchants out of their goods. The German Ministry was dealing with similar problems in addition to higher instances of anti-Muggle violence.

It seemed no one in Europe thought these events were connected. There seemed to be no pattern to them and the culprits rarely claimed affiliation to any organizations. The ones that did seemed to belong to small, local groups unsatisfied with Muggle trade relations.

Albus himself would not have seen a connection if he hadn't been looking for it.

It was an innocuous little clue; some of the captured raiders and swindlers carried a coin engraved with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

They claimed it was a good luck charm. Albus couldn't say whether they were lying or not. Clearly, Gellert had developed some sophisticated methods of mind control. Either way, Albus didn't believe that the coins were meaningless trinkets.

The legend of the Deathly Hallows was relatively obscure, even in England. The story of the Hallows was only popular among British Pureblood families who loved to tout their heirlooms as keepsakes from the legendary Peverell brothers. There was no logical reason for the symbol to turn up as a good luck charm in the rest of Europe.

Albus sighed and prepared for his meeting with the Head Auror.

He couldn't sit back and wait for the Aurors to make the connection between the attacks and Gellert. Albus had to admit that he probably would have ignored the incidents if Harry had not contacted him, meaning he wouldn't have noticed Gellert's influence either. The Aurors would need help and Albus was planning to increase his political standing anyway. What better way to do it then offering his assistance in one of the most chaotic cases the Aurors had faced since the end of the Great Muggle War?

He Apparated at the entrance to the Ministry and made his way to the second level.

Rufus Scrimgeour had been understandably surprised when Albus asked for a meeting. Albus hadn't shown any particular interest in the Auror profession since he'd turned down an offer to join when he graduated Hogwarts. He had assisted the Aurors in cases involving magical creatures when asked, but he'd never sought them out before.

Scrimgeour's assistant showed him into his office right away but Scrimgeour was busy with some papers. He didn't look up until he finished the document he was reading. Intelligent, patient, and respectably powerful Scrimgeour had been elevated to Head Auror last year, when Gareth Armswell retired after almost a century of dedicated service. Albus remembered an astute, gifted, and studious blond young man keeping him on his toes during his first year at Hogwarts. Scrimgeour had been a seventh year when Albus took his post and remained one of the most ingenious students Albus had ever taught.

"Professor Dumbledore," Scrimgeour said, bowing his head respectfully. His office was devoid of magical trinkets aside from the large Foe-Glass that dominated the left side of the room. There were several shadowy figures lurking in its depths. "I must admit I was surprised when you asked for a meeting. Please sit."

"Yes, I imagine you were," agreed Albus, sitting down at the same time Scrimgeour did. It would be best to be blunt. "I have information pertaining to the case of the Muggle raids."

"You have some idea regarding the identity of the culprits?" asked Scrimgeour. He managed to keep his voice neutral but forgot to stop himself from leaning forward a little.

"I know who the culprit is," Albus told him. "Gellert Grindelwald."

"Who?" asked Scrimgeour after a few seconds of silence.

So the Aurors had no idea who Gellert was. It wasn't surprising. "He was expelled from Durmstrang Institute for his experiments on the Dark Arts," said Albus. "He used fellow students as test subjects."

"What makes you believe he's behind the raids?" asked Scrimgeour when it was clear that Albus was waiting for a reaction.

"The coins engraved with the Deathly Hallows symbol," responded Albus. "He uses the symbol as a signature."

"Why is he in England?" asked Scrimgeour, lacing his fingers together.

Albus was about to tell Scrimgeour a heavily censored version of how he became acquainted with Gellert when Scrimgeour's assistant burst through the door, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. "There's been an attack on the Leaky Cauldron!"

Albus stood up and walked out the door without waiting to see how Scrimgeour would react.

* * *

Sometimes, Annie really wished she could jinx customers.

It was the middle of dinner rush hour and for some reason they'd run out of beef stew. There were _four_ other kinds of stew, but some customers were determined to somehow have beef stew for dinner. A few declared that if they couldn't get it, then they should at least get a free dinner for the inconvenience. Annie marveled at the sense of entitlement some people managed to develop.

Tom was upset about the sudden problem because he assumed that she'd messed up the last restocking cycle. She hadn't; vegetable stew had just been more popular over the last few weeks. Regardless, Annie knew she'd been dealing with stern rebuffs about her inability to predict the future later. She sighed and looked at the next customer in line.

"We're looking for Riddle," a tall man with messy, graying hair said. "Tell him the Anders want to see him."

Annie frowned. Harry had never mentioned any Anders. Harry hadn't ever mentioned anyone at all. "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong place," she said. The man standing behind graying-hair stepped forward to stand by his side.

"We know he's here!" he snarled, grabbing Annie's arm. He pulled her forward until she was close enough to smell the stink of Firewhiskey fumes coming off him.

"Let me go!" she said, trying to pull her arm away.

"Hey!" Annie heard another one of the customers in line yell. "What do you think you're doing?"

The man who wasn't holding Annie's arm turned around and launched a Reductor Curse in the general direction of the voice.

Someone screamed.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Annie used her free hand to grab at her attacker's face, pushing her thumbs against his left eye, just like Owen taught her.

The man screamed and let go of Annie.

After dropping to the floor and sliding under the counter, Annie pulled out her wand and wrapped herself in the strongest Shielding Charm she could manage. Sparing only a second to feel panic, she started crawling towards the backroom.

She could hear that the customers had started a Cauldron-wide brawl. The noise must have attracted Tom, because he walked out of the backroom before Annie made it there. As if she was in a nightmare, Annie heard someone yell _Reducto!_ and seconds later a stream of blue light hit Tom's face.

Annie let out a short scream and scrambled to his side.

There was too much blood. She couldn't see Tom's face under it.

Before she could attempt any healing spells (she could barely fixed skinned knees), someone grabbed the back of her robes and pull her towards the backroom. Annie curled her hand into a fist and turned around, ready to defend herself.

Harry grabbed her fist before it connected with his jaw. "Annie! It's me! What's happening?"

"They're asking for you," she said, trying to rush back to the spot where Tom was lying.

Harry pulled her towards him again.

"Annie," he said, then grabbed her shoulders. He shook her a little. "Look at me." Then he pointed at the spot where Tommy was playing with some toy blocks, seemingly unaware that the usual noise permeating through the Cauldron had changed. "Take Tommy and run. I'll handle things here. But you take the baby and run. Understand?"

Annie nodded, then raced over to Tommy's side and picked him up. He started crying when he dropped one of the toy blocks but Annie ignored him and covered him with a Shielding Charm. She briefly considered Apparating, but remembered how unpleasant it was at first, even for an adult. Plus, she incredibly nervous and didn't know how to handle splinching.

Panic almost overtook her when she thought she'd have to go back to the front, but then she remembered the large window in the backroom. Annie walked towards it and used magic to open it. She climbed out the window, carefully keeping a firm hold on Tommy and trying to ignore the bangs and scream coming from the front.

She walked into Diagon Alley in a brisk pace. Disorientation and confusion almost overwhelmed her. Eventually, she ducked into the quietest road she could find and sat at a bench that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Tommy was still crying so she bounced him on her thigh in an attempt to calm him down, looking around her and wondering why no one noticed that something was wrong.

Tommy was still crying. She looked down at him and almost screamed when she saw that his loose, blue sailor suit was stained red with blood.

Tom's blood.

Annie cried out and hugged Tommy to her chest. She didn't even remember touching Tom's face. Dimly, she ordered herself to keep calm and struggled to deny the impulse to curl into a fetal position.

Diagon Alley wasn't safe. Hiding from wizards would be easier in the Muggle world. Not that she thought they would come after her. They were after Harry.

She stood up and Transfigured her periwinkle robes into a plain brown dress. The blood stains were suspicious so she got rid of them with Scouring Charms. It would easiest to exit Diagon Alley via the small passageway visitors from Knockturn Alley preferred to use when they did not want to be seen, though Annie’s first instinct was to find people and ask for help. But she had no idea what was happening and that Auror would . . . Harry was only at The Leaky Cauldron because Annie had vouched for him.

Better to go to Owen's apartment until she calmed down.

Luckily, most people were already home from work. Nobody paid them any attention while walking through Knockturn Alley.

Things were predictably different at the London train station. Most of the good people of the Muggle city were not used to seeing a black woman with a lily white baby.

After several minutes of staring, one of the passengers decided to speak up. "Miss," said the elderly woman. "Where did you get the baby?"

"I'm his nanny," answered Annie.

"And his mother?" the lady persisted.

"He's an orphan," said Annie, almost jumping to her feet once the train made it to her stop. If the old bat tried to stop her, Annie might just turn her brain to mush.

Owen noticed something was wrong the moment she opened his door and Annie almost burst into tears.

"What happened?" he asked.

Tommy looked up at him and gurgled happily. He must have stopped crying at some point.

"I . . ." Annie started as she walked into his flat. "I need to bathe." She passed him Tommy before he could ask more questions.

"Annie!" he called walked up to her.

"Please," she told him. "I'll explain after I get clean."

She walked to Owen's bathroom and wrapped a scarf charmed to repel water around her hair. The warm water did less to soothe her nerves then she'd hoped it would. The more time passed, the harder it was to keep the image of Tom's bloodied face out of her mind. She couldn't help but think about the wizard Harry had killed in the Albright brewery with a Reductor blast.

It was her fault. None of it would have happened if Annie hadn't insisted on helping Harry despite her better judgment. It didn't matter if Harry was objectively a good person. There were dangerous people after him and he insisted he was from the future. Annie should have taken him to St. Mungo's and told the Aurors that criminals were after him for some reason.

She needed to tell someone, but who? Someone at the Ministry? Septimus Weasley offered to help her, but that was months ago. What would she do with Tommy? Should she try to find the Riddles? Contact the Potters? She had no idea.

Annie took a deep breath a readied herself to talk to Owen anyway. Stewing in her own misery would get her nowhere.

She got up from the bath and dressed herself. Owen wrapped his arms around her the moment she walked into his room.

"Tommy?" she asked him after a few seconds.

"He's napping," Owen answered. "What happened?"

"Someone came after Harry," Annie said and pushed her forehead against Owen's chest. His arms tightened around her. "They hurt Tom . . . There was blood on his face. And probably more people." Annie's fingers fisted on his shirt.

Owen rubbed her lower back lightly. "And Harry?" he asked.

"He told me to take Tommy and run," Annie told him. "He said he'd handle it."

She felt Owen put his hand under her chin and try to meet her eyes. When she looked at him, he opened his mouth but before he could say anything, they heard a loud pop coming from behind Owen.

They both turned around, Owen trying to keep Annie behind him.

She stepped away from his back and pointed her wand at the newcomer.

It was Harry. He was covered in blood.

* * *

Harry cast a Shielding Charm and crouched before slowly making his way to Tom's side. There was extensive damage around his neck. Blood was rapidly pooling around his head like some kind of horrific halo. Harry allowed himself to feel anger and sadness for a few seconds and then looked at the chaos unfolding in the Cauldron's front room. He needed to buy Annie as much time as possible.

There were several people lying on the floor, hopefully alive. A large number of customers had already escaped the pub. The ones who remained were also trying to get out, running towards the exit while trying to dodge stray curses. Eventually, only one man was left standing. He was relatively tall, with brown hair and a dirty looking beard.

"Riddle, where are you?" he snarled, blasting the counter with a Reductor Curse. Harry managed to dodge all the wood pieces flying from the explosion.

"I found him," said a voice from coming from Harry's left.

Harry cursed under his breath.

This new one was shorter, with graying hair and a pouchy stomach. He must have been Apparating all over the pub, looking for Harry.

"Who're you two?" he asked them.

"We're the Anders!" yelled the newcomer, aiming his wand at Harry. He screamed an incantation Harry didn't know but the purple light coming from his was clearly visible and easy to dodge. The other followed up with another unknown curse but Harry's shield absorbed it.

Harry cast another Shielding Charm just in case and got ready to dodge more curses.

"Why are you after me?" he asked them. He heard one of the people on the floor moaning in pain.

That was good; it meant some of them were still alive.

"You've been maligning our good name!" said the taller one before aiming his wand at Harry. Instead of waiting for him to attack, Harry tried to hit him with a Stunning Spell.

The wizard dodged and aimed his wand at Harry again.

"I don't know either of you!" yelled Harry, diving behind an upturned table. He spotted a large brick in the floor and used the Levitating Charm on it as lowly as he could.

One of the men walked around the upturned table and Harry hit him with the floating brick as hard as he could. It was the shorter of the two men and he'd cast a Shielding Charm before trying to draw Harry out of his hiding spot. The brick bounced off the shield but Harry didn't want to give up. He slammed the brick against the shield again. On the third slam, the shield shattered and Harry tried to hit the wizard directly.

The brick got the man's chin and he stumbled back. Harry felt a curse hit his shield on his back. He remembered the other wizard and tried to hit him with the levitated brick. It bounced against his shield.

The tall man tried to hit Harry with another Reductor Curse, but Harry ducked and dropped the brick. He quickly cast another Shielding Charm on himself.

The one Harry hit with the brick was bleeding from the mouth. He was trying to heal his injury, so Harry took advantage of the opening and hit him with a Stunning Spell, which bounced off a new shield he must have cast. He had to dodge another curse from the tall one, but he aimed another Stunning Spell at the bleeding one. Finally, Harry managed to break through the man's shield and stun him.

"Listen," he tried to speak to the remaining one but the man just tried to blast him with another curse.

Harry slid away from the curse, scanning the floor for another hefty rock. No need to kill these people. "I'm not who you think I am! You're being tricked!"

"You're a Mudblood traitor and cheat!" the unknown wizard answered, trying to get Harry with an unknown, filmy red curse.

It was getting more annoying than scary now that it was clear that the men were not fast enough to hit Harry with any spell.

Suddenly, Harry remembered that Tom was lying on the floor, probably dead by some racist imbecile Grindelwald had poisoned. He felt his stomach clench with rage. Harry glared at the remaining attacker and dropped a brick he’d been readying to overwhelm his opponent’s flimsy shield. The tall wizard launched another curse at him but Harry sidestepped and retaliated with a Stunning Spell.

Paradoxically, it was like anger was clearing his head, which was the opposite of what usually happened when Harry’s emotions got the best of him. His opponent's fighting style was becoming predictable, even though Harry still didn't know which curses he was using.

Harry tried to hit him with Stunning Spells, but he couldn't hit him fast enough to shatter his shield (strange, how magic was so effective against magic but tended to crumble under basic Newtonian principles unless it stemmed from the most powerful of wizards).

Harry was growing more and more frustrated with himself. Mediocre (at best) wizards were attacking him but he couldn’t muster enough power to silence them once and for all. Tom was dead because Harry was too passive and stupid to watch his own back. Annie could have died. Tommy could have died. Tom was dead.

Harry kept his eyes on the attacker and tried to find an opening. He was about to use the brick again (inelegant, but it'd worked on the shorter one) when the tall suddenly Disapparated.

The man Apparated right in front of Harry and grabbed his shoulder. Harry tried to wrench away, but the man was too strong. The wizard pointed his wand at Harry's head and Harry panicked. He tried to aim his own wand at the man. If only he knew of a spell strong and fast enough to break a shield—

" _Sectumsempra_!" Harry screamed.

There was a flash of light and Harry heard some invincible force strike at his enemy's shield. On the third hit, the shield shattered. Harry saw the wizard's eyes widen before a deep gash blossomed across his neck. Blood spurted from it and hit Harry's forehead. The wizard let go of Harry's arm and Harry stumbled backwards.

There was blood flowing down Harry's eyes. He closed them and tried to wipe the blood away. His glasses were swimming in the stuff so he wiped at them frantically, expecting someone to take advantage and curse him to oblivion. He put his glasses back on and scanned the room, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw what was left of his opponent.

The man’s head was almost completely severed from his neck. His body was riddled with deep gashes. Loops of bowel were strewn over a pool of bright red blood.

As if he'd been in a dream, Harry realized which curse he'd used.

Harry looked down at himself. There were bloodstains all over his clothes. He didn't feel any pain, so the blood probably wasn't his. His shoulders shrinking in on him and he had to struggle to slow down his breathing.

He hadn't meant to kill him. Not like that. His hands were shaking. How had he done it? He never practiced _Sectumsempra_ , he shouldn't have managed so many slashes with one incantation. He didn't even remember aiming his wand right.

Harry didn't know how long he stood there, shivering and trying to calm his breathing. Until a group of wizards Apparated around the Cauldron.

Harry pointed his wand at one of them and readied himself for another fight.

"We're Aurors!" a tall redhead said. "Please, lower your wand." He reminded Harry painfully of Ron.

Harry lowered his wand.

"What happened here?" another Auror said.

Harry looked at him. It was the same Auror who'd questioned him after the Albright incident.

"Harry," he heard Dumbledore's voice coming from behind him.

Harry turned around to look for him, then flinched at his expressionless face. Dumbledore would be angry. He hated the Dark Arts. He wouldn't help Harry anymore.

"It was an accident," Harry told him.

Dumbledore's expression didn't change.

It was no use. Dumbledore never understood. He always thought he was right about everything and now he would probably send Harry to Azkaban.

Dumbledore made a move towards him and Harry Disapparated to a field he'd gone on a picnic with Tommy, Annie, and Owen once. He didn't know how long he'd stood under the big tree where he'd watched Owen make faces at Tommy, enjoying gusts of warm wind and feeling happy that someone was able to treat Tommy like a normal baby.

Finally, he decided to look for Annie and make sure she and Tommy were all right.

* * *

When Owen saw the bloody figure appear on his flat, he didn't even realize it was Harry. His face was covered in blood and his closes were stained and dripping with it in several spots. Owen only recognized him because of his stance—it was the same way Harry stood when he was trying to be alert. No blood was pooling by his feet, so maybe the blood staining him wasn’t his.

Annie moved forward the moment she realized it was Harry. She raised her wand but Harry shook his head and stepped back until his back hit Owen's wall. "Hey," she said gently. "If you can Apparate, it's not as bad as it looks."

"It's not my blood," Harry said, confirming Owen's conclusion. He heard Annie sighing with relief. "Where's Tommy?"

"He's sleeping," said Owen.

"How's Tom?" asked Annie.

"He's dead," said Harry, sinking to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest and stared at nothing.

Annie glanced at Owen and walked over to Harry. She sat down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry didn't respond so Annie looked up at Owen, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. Owen followed her lead and sat down on Harry's other side.

"Whose blood is it?" he asked.

"One of the attackers," said Harry, pushing his forehead against the palm of his right hand. The blood was crusting on his forehead and he tried to scratch it off absentmindedly. "He Apparated close to me and grabbed me . . . I couldn't shake him off so I used . . ." he trailed off helplessly.

"You were trying to defend yourself," Annie said quickly.

"No, no," Harry said and shook his head. His eyes darted around the room. "I used Dark magic; I shouldn't be good at it. I don't even practice. There's something wrong with me." Owen hadn't ever heard him speak so quickly.

Annie looked at Owen and sighed. She was biting her lower lip and trying to keep her breathing even. She couldn’t be feeling any better than Harry, but she’d had more time to calm down. Owen wished he was strong enough to hunt down whoever hurt her and make them pay. Instead, he had to settle for patting Harry on the other shoulder.

"No one has to know the specifics," he tried.

"It's a little bit obvious," said Harry, unexpectedly sounding angry. "Dumbledore was there, he saw what I did. . ."

"Dumbledore was there?" asked Annie.

"He came after I killed the taller one," said Harry and, tapping the fingers of his left hand against his right knee. "Annie, you have to take care of Tommy after they take me to Azkaban. But you have to be careful because he's so strong." He suddenly grabbed Annie's shoulders, staining her dress with blood.

Owen battled an urge to pull him off her, like he was a violent stranger rather than someone Owen considered a friend.

"Promise me you'll be careful," he told Annie.

"Harry," Annie said firmly, pushing his hands away from her shoulders. "Listen to me. They won't send you to Azkaban for defending yourself. They didn't after you killed the other wizard."

Owen looked away. He still felt guilty about not telling Annie the truth about what happened at the brewery. Miserably, he hoped Harry didn't tell her the truth in his confusion, which only made him feel worse.

"It wasn't like this before," Owen heard Harry say. "In the future - ”.

Annie sighed. She still didn't believe Harry about that.

"No, listen!" insisted Harry.

Owen looked up at Annie. "Why is it so unbelievable?" he asked her.

She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead sighed and nodded at Harry.

"In the future," he started again. "There was a curse. It slashed people with an invisible sword, kind of. It killed people easily. I read the incantation in a book. I didn't know what it was so I used it on a bully. It nearly killed him." Harry stopped and took a deep breath.

"Is that what you used today?" asked Owen even though he knew the answer.

Harry nodded. "I wanted to break his shield. I remember that much. I didn't think it'd keep going after. I think. I don't know why I used that curse in the first place."

"You only used it once?" asked Annie.

Harry nodded again. "I should have tried the thing with the brick again," he said.

Owen almost laughed at the absurdity of that statement. Maybe he was getting hysterical too.

"You can explain what happened," Annie said again. "You won't go to Azkaban for defending yourself."

"Dumbledore knows what I did," repeated Harry.

"And I thought he was your friend," insisted Annie.

"No, he's not!" Harry suddenly shot to his feet. "He hates Dark magic. He won't understand it was an accident!"

Annie and Owen followed him up. He saw that Annie was about to say something, but Tommy started crying. It startled all three of them.

"Go wash," Annie said to Harry before rushing to Tommy, using magic to clean blood off her shoulders.

"I'll show you the bathroom," said Owen, motioning for Harry to follow him. His flat was small and the bathroom was right next to his room so Harry didn't really need a guide. In fact, he'd probably been in Owen's bathroom before and Owen just didn’t remember it.

"You all right with Annie taking Tommy?" asked Harry after he opened the bathroom door.

Owen nodded. He'd grown really fond of Tommy, though he was worried about how they were going to explain where they got a white baby from. "Maybe it won't be as bad as you think," he told Harry, who only shook his head sadly and went into the bathroom.

* * *

 Albus looked down at what was left of the man Harry had been standing over. Most of his blood (and other fluids) was staining the floor of the Leaky Cauldron. His head . . . killing with magic tended to be . . . cleaner. Albus had to admit that he didn't know which specific spell had killed him, but he could tell it belonged with most people would consider the Dark Arts.

"Do you know where he might have gone, Professor?" asked Septimus Weasly.

Albus thought it was obvious. He'd gone to Annie Moreau.

"No," answered Albus. "How many are dead?"

"Five, including the owner and one of the attackers," said Septimus, pointing at the one Albus was examining. "One of the survivors identified him."

Albus nodded and started to examine the rest of the pub. Healers were seeing to the injured and cleaning the bodies of the victims the Aurors were done examining. The Ministry would not be able to keep this attack quiet. The Leaky Cauldron was one of the most famous locations in Wizarding London. They'd already had to turn away customers.

"Professor?" he heard Septimus ask again.

Albus turned and smiled at him gently. He'd been a good student. A bit of an underachiever, but kind and studious. "Septimus, what do you think happened here?" he asked. It would be rewarding if it turned out that Septimus had found a profession that motivated him.

"The surviving attacker says they came here because Riddle has been spreading lies about them," answered Septimus.

"Do you believe that?"

"No, sir," said Septimus, running his hand through his red hair. "These men made a living swindling Muggles. We found no evidence of criminal behavior when we were watching Riddle. I think they were Confunded into believing they were Riddle's enemies."

Albus agreed. He was about to say so when Scrimgeour walked up to them with short, balding Auror in tow. "This is Wyatt Bolter," said Scrimgeour. "He's the Auror in charge of the raids case and he's investigated Harry Riddle before."

"Mr. Scrimgeour says you're acquainted him," said Mr. Bolter without preamble. "Do you know where he came from?"

"Yes," nodded Albus. "He's a German wizard running from Grindelwald. He asked for my help when he came to England."

"He doesn't sound German." Mr. Bolter did not sound convinced.

"Faking an accent is not particularly difficult," pointed out Albus.

"If he's hiding, why would he look for work at the most famous pub in Wizarding England?"

"Ever heard of hiding in plain sight?" countered Albus. The question was valid, but Albus could tell there was something not right about this Auror.

Before Mr. Bolter could say anything else, Scrimgeour stepped in. "Professor, the attacker was killed by Dark magic. Did you know that Riddle practiced the Dark Arts?"

The Aurors could not possibly know prove the nature of the spell Harry had used, not if Albus himself couldn’t identify it. It was fortunate for Harry, since it would be difficult to pin a crime on him if they could not specify what forbidden magic he'd used. And the Ministry would be looking for a scapegoat for this attack in an attempt to minimize public panic.

"You recognize the spell he used?" Albus asked Scrimgeour.

"It was obviously Dark magic!" Mr. Bolter shouted.

An Auror would not blatantly disrespect a Hogwarts professor. Something was most definitely wrong.

"Mr. Bolter," Scrimgeour started in a firm tone.

"No!" the man yelled. "Why doesn't anyone see that Riddle is dangerous? He's a murderer!"

The Auror pulled out his wand.

Albus used Legilimency and put him to sleep before he could do anything. Mr. Bolter fell over and Septimus caught him before he hit the floor. "It seems Grindelwald has started infiltrating the Aurors' office," Albus told Scrimgeour without humor.

Scrimgeour frowned but said nothing. Gellert was moving faster than Albus expected.

"Mr. Bolter has been acting strange about Riddle," confirmed Septimus.

"Why didn't you say so before?" demanded Scrimgeour.

"I had no proof, sir," answered Septimus, looking down. "I didn't think anyone would believe me."

Albus wasn't surprised. Septimus had always hated confrontation. "It hardly matters now," he intervened before Scrimgeour could take his frustration out on Septimus. "All Aurors must be examined by Healers. I can instruct them on what to look for. I will expect a favor in return, of course." It was hardly going to win him any points with the Aurors, but Albus needed to protect Harry for the time being.

"Isn't the satisfaction of knowing you're protecting the wizards of England enough?" asked Scrimgeour.

It was, actually, but they did not know that. Albus saw no reason to not take advantage of every possible angle. Gellert certainly wouldn't.

"Do not try to prosecute Harry Riddle for killing one of his attackers," said Albus without bothering to answer Scrimgeour's question. "In exchange, I will teach the Healers how to detect Grindelwald's method of mind control."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like four+ years of sporadic practice have not made me much better at writing actions scenes.
> 
> By the way, I changed my tumblr name:
> 
> http://pathobell.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

Getting rid of the blood did make Harry feel better. In fact, Harry stayed in Owen's tub even after he was clean to avoid having to deal with the aftermath of the attack right away. An absurd certainty that the world would wait for him to be clean snaked had snaked its way into his mind. Everyone would prefer to deal with a murderer who didn’t reek of blood, right?

Unless his memory was failing him, Dumbledore and the Aurors had Apparated at the Cauldron after Harry killed the taller attacker. They obviously wouldn't be able to recognize Sectumsempra, so how could they send him to Azkaban for using it? Harry still had a chance to convince them it was an accident. That part was even true. All he had to do was remain calm.

Except, remaining calm wouldn't be all that simple. At least, it shouldn't be. Harry had killed a man. Everything couldn’t simply go back to the way it was. _Something_ ought to change, if not in the outside world then at least inside him. Shouldn't he have changed? Shouldn't something have changed?

Harry tried to find some remorse or regret as he poured water over his head, but the truth was that he blamed the attacker for his own death. Harry would have never done such a thing if he hadn't been provoked. Besides, his victim had been a murderer himself. Tom wouldn’t be too broken up about the bastard’s death, not that anyone would ever be able to ask him his opinion.

But the poor bastard wouldn't have attacked Harry if he hadn't been tricked by Grindelwald.

Still, that made Grindelwald the guilty party, not Harry. The truth still was that nobody would be dead if Grindelwald would had just left Harry alone.

Besides, wallowing in guilt would not get Harry anywhere. Going to Azkaban wouldn't bring back the moron Harry had killed. If anything, it might just make things worse. Harry needed freedom so he could make sure Tommy didn't grow up to be a raging, Muggle-hating psychopath. He had to make the Aurors believe he wasn't a killer.

He was still trying to guess all the questions the Aurors would ask him when someone knocked on the bathroom door. "Professor Dumbledore is here to see you," Owen called out. "He said he's in a hurry."

". . . All right," answered Harry, proud that his voice sounded almost natural. "I'll be right out."

He had to use a scouring charm to get the blood out of his clothes.

Before walking outside, Harry stopped to look at himself in the mirror. Nothing on his face marked him as a killer. If he remained calm, he might be able to avoid prison. Dumbledore could be his test. If he could fool Dumbledore, fooling the Ministry would be a walk in the park on a sunny afternoon.

Harry took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom, tried to push down the usual surge of apprehension at the site of Dumbledore taking up space in Owen’s tiny kitchen. Annie was with him, holding Tommy and lightly patting his back with her left arm. She smiled nervously at Harry before bowing to Dumbledore and trying to walk out of the kitchen. Tommy made a protesting noise, and Harry realized that he'd been playing with Dumbledore's sleeve.

There was something deeply unsettling about watching Dumbledore absentmindedly use magic to stitch his sleeve's pattern into Tommy's shirt. Tommy actually grabbed the tip of Dumbledore's wand, the same way he usually tried to hold people's fingers.

"There you go," Dumbledore was saying as he pulled his wand out of Tommy's tiny fist. He tapped Tommy's nose with his index finger before looking up at Harry with a gentle smile. Annie actually laughed lightly before walking away, gracing Harry with an encouraging nod on her way out of the kitchen.

It was during moments like these that Harry became viscerally aware of how far away from home he was. Dumbledore played with Tom Riddle now. Suddenly, he missed Ron and Hermione so much his stomach hurt. He sighed, rubbing at his temple’s in a poor attempt to calm a headache he hadn’t even noticed.

Dumbledore didn't say anything. Harry remembered what the younger Dumbledore said the first time he met him. Letting people talk is the easiest way to learn things about them.

"Aurors know where I am?" he asked finally.

"Not yet," answered Dumbledore. "But it won't take them long to track you here."

"Tom?"

"Dead," said Dumbledore.

Harry looked down and curled his hands into fists.

"The Reductor Curse ripped right through his jugular. He didn't suffer."

It was a small comfort, Harry supposed. "Were they carrying coins?" he asked, looking up.

"No," answered Dumbledore before pulling a chair out from under Owen's small kitchen table. He sat down and motioned for Harry to do the same. "But their minds were altered in the same way the minds of the raiders are being altered."

"Being altered?" asked Harry as he pulled out another chair and sat in front of Dumbledore.

"The raids are being carried out by people who've been put through a very particular form of Legilimency," Dumbledore told Harry.

"So he's trying to start the war already," said Harry. That was a problem. It wasn't supposed to start yet. Or, was it? He knew World War II wasn't supposed to happen until the late 1930s but maybe the Wizarding War started sooner?

"At the very least, he's trying to foster as much chaos as possible," Dumbledore conceded. "What curse killed one of the attackers?"

"I don't know," Harry tried to lie, carefully keeping his face blank.

"Miss Moreau said differently."

Harry mentally swore and then looked down. Obviously, Annie and Dumbledore had been talking about the attack. What else would they talk about? And Annie obviously had tried to intervene on Harry's behalf. He shouldn't have told her and Owen about what he'd done. Or, at the very least, he should have asked them to keep it to themselves.

"I believe you attacked him in self-defense," said Dumbledore. "Sometimes, wizards use violent magic out of fear. Especially younger ones."

"You don't think I'm evil?" Harry asked incredulously. The idea that Dumbledore could be tolerant of the Dark Arts was absurd. Maybe he hadn't only gone back in time. Maybe Harry was in another universe altogether.

"Magic is closely tied to emotion," answered Dumbledore. "Fear and anger lead to the violence. I would think you are evil only if you used that curse in a calm moment of clarity."

Harry had never heard anything remotely like that at Hogwarts. Dark magic was evil, and only evil people used it. He didn't even think anyone had explicitly said that magic was tied to emotions, but the Professors had always talked about the importance of focus and concentration. Maybe the thing about emotions was implied?

"Then why is there a subject called Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"Because the Dark Arts are evil in practice," answered Dumbledore.

Harry wasn't sure he understood what the difference was. "What?"

"Magic is not sentient," Dumbledore added. "No form of magic can be evil or good. Magic simply is."

". . . Do the Aurors agree?" asked Harry after a few moments.

"No. Of course not," admitted Dumbledore, smiling to himself. "However, I've persuaded them against prosecuting you for killing another one of your attackers."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. The notion that Dumbledore could be so tolerant about the use of Dark magic was antithetical to everything he knew. It should probably make him feel relieved, but it was too bizarre. It was disorienting, like finding out a fundamental fact of life was false. Was this how the world first time they realized the planet wasn’t flat?

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I know where Gellert is operating as long as I know where you are," said Dumbledore. "And because I consider you a friend. I don't believe you killed that wizard out of malice."

". . . Thank you," breathed Harry, and something on his face made Dumbledore chuckle.

"How did you convince the Aurors to look the other way?"

"I offered to teach St. Mungo's healers how Gellert's new mind-control technique works in exchange for your freedom," answered Dumbledore with another smile. "An act that makes you my responsibility. If I'm wrong and you are a Dark wizard, I will have to deal with you. Anymore blood in your hands will be blood on my hands as well."

Harry nodded. Strangely, the emotionally manipulative threat was more comforting than anything else Dumbledore had said. It’s what Dumbledore of all people ought to be doing to someone who presumably killed people with Dark magic.

"I shouldn't have been able to use Sectumsempra so well anyway."

"Why not?" asked Dumbledore.

"I never practiced it. I've only used it a couple of times. Three times, actually." Harry shrugged. "First time, I didn't know what it would do. Second time, I tried to use it against Inferi. Then, I tried it on the man who killed you." Harry tried to see if Dumbledore reacted at the mention of his death, but his face remained impassive. "I never managed to cause that much damage."

"How many Inferi?"

"There was an army, but that was before I was born. Maybe Sectumsempra did cut them up right and it didn't stop them because they feel no pain," Harry wondered out loud. "Do you believe me about the future now?"

"I cannot believe such a thing," said Dumbledore. "I might as well believe you about the Hallows."

"But _Sectumsempra!_ " Harry said desperately. "You didn't recognize it!"

"I'm not arrogant enough to assume I know all spells in existence," said Dumbledore.

Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He'd tried everything to get Dumbledore to believe him. He'd given details about Hogwarts, but Dumbledore said he could have read about them in Hogwarts: A History. He'd brought up the Room of Requirement, but Dumbledore hadn't known about it at first. Once he'd confirmed its existence, he said that Harry could have learned about it from a student. Harry then tried to give details of Dumbledore's life, but Dumbledore thought he'd gotten them out of his damned memoirs.

"Is there anything I can say to make you believe me?"

"You could let me enter your mind," answered Dumbledore.

Rationally, Harry knew it was the easiest way to prove that he was telling the truth. Regardless, the idea of having anyone inside his mind made him feel ill. Voldemort had spent years trying to control him that way. Snape had humiliated him for months when he was supposed to have been teaching Harry Occlumency.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head adamantly. "Besides, you would only say you believe I believe I come from the future." It was what Annie had concluded and she actually liked him, for some reason.

"You do realize that you can't actually stop me from entering your mind," Dumbledore pointed out.

"You said you wouldn't!" Harry cried.

"I didn't," Dumbledore placated. "I stopped out of courtesy. Gellert is not courteous. He will eventually attack you with Legilimency."

For some reason, the idea of Grindelwald inside his mind filled him with less dread than willingly letting Dumbledore take a look around. How much worse than Voldemort could Grindelwald be anyway?

"I could try to learn Occlumency again," he suggested.

"I assumed you tried in the past and failed," said Dumbledore.

"Yes, but that was probably because you told a man who hated me to teach me." Harry was still bitter about that. "How was I supposed to clear my mind when he was trying to prove I was a moron the whole time?"

"I feel I must remind you I haven't done any of the things that have made you so angry at me," said Dumbledore, smiling like Harry was particularly petulant toddler. "But who would you have preferred as a teacher?"

Harry opened his mouth, but then realized he'd wanted Dumbledore to be his teacher. He couldn't even remember why. Right now, he would have preferred another few lessons with Snape himself. "I don't know," he said instead.

"I know one other Legilimens who might be willing to offer you assistance," Dumbledore mused.

"Who?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Rosalind Potter," answered Dumbledore.

Harry cursed his luck. Even though it was preferable to Dumbledore being the one to teach him, it still wasn't anyone Harry would have chosen. Rosalind would undoubtedly see some of his thoughts during lessons. It would be awkward to explain why he thought Potter was his last name.

"All right," he said finally. "We can ask her."

If she saw anything about his—their—family, Harry would just have to come clean. She might even be more willing to help him if it meant saving her descendants.

"You would agree to let her see your mind if she agrees?" asked Dumbledore.

Harry shrugged and then nodded. "By the way, did I mention my real name is Harry Potter?"

"You did not," said Dumbledore. "I have to admit it makes your time travel story slightly more believable. I don't believe the Potters are prone to abandoning their children. Not even the bastards."

Harry decided to ignore that comment. "What do I tell the Aurors when they come to ask me questions?"

"Do not wait for them to find you; go find them," Dumbledore told him. "Return to The Leaky Cauldron—preferably with Miss Moreau—as soon as possible and willingly give your statement. Tell them what you planned to tell me. They attackers came asking for you and attacked everyone. Miss Moreau ran while you defended yourself as best you could, and then you panicked and killed one of the attackers by mistake."

"I was planning to tell you that wizard killed himself," Harry admitted.

"Really?" Dumbledore asked mildly. "It's a good thing I came to talk to you first, then. It's obvious you were the one who cast that curse. Lying about it would only make it seem like you planned it."

"Can't they tell it's Dark magic?" asked Harry.

"Technically, they can't identify it at all," said Dumbledore with another self-satisfied smile. "You could claim tried to cast Pink magic if you wanted and they could not prove you wrong."

"Is that true for all spells?"

"But don't make any elaborate lies." Dumbledore ignored the question. "Say that didn't even try to cast any magic. You panicked and your magic defended you instinctively."

"All right," said Harry, nodding vigorously. He didn't even ask how magic could do anything on its own if it wasn't alive.

"I've also told them that you're a German wizard running from Gellert," said Dumbledore as he stood up. "Now, I must return to Hogwarts and owl Ms. Potter."

"Wait," Harry said. "I can't speak German."

"Tell them you used magic to replace your knowledge of German with English," said Dumbledore, waving a hand dismissively. "Though it would be prudent to learn basic German geography and customs." He Disapparated without another word.

Harry took a few moments to mull over the conversation. Nothing would make the odd exchange jive correctly with he he thought he knew about Dumbledore, magic. . . anything.

Sleepiness was making his eyelids feel heavy, but Harry needed to get Annie and return to the Cauldron. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was no place to sleep at Owen's small flat anyway as he went to collect Annie.

* * *

When Dumbledore left the Leaky Cauldron, Septimus expected to be sacked immediately. Maybe he even deserved it. Maybe he should’ve been brave enough to tell someone what he suspected about Mr. Bolter long ago. Isn't that what any Gryffindor would’ve done? Maybe his brothers were right and he was miss-sorted Hufflepuff.

Fortunately, Mr. Scrimgeour seemed to forget all about Septimus the moment Professor Dumbledore Disapparated and immediately moved towards Gary Anders. Since his injuries were actually quite minor, the Healers fixed him up really quickly. By now, he was only stunned and bound by magical chains. And as ready for questioning as he was ever going to be. Scrimgeour woke the unlucky bastard and motioned for Septimus to come forward.

He was actually less incoherent than the last raiders Septimus and Mr. Bolter had questioned. For starters, he didn't babble about an obscenely, beautifully powerful man convincing him that Muggles ought to be exterminated in order to end the oppression of the Wizarding World. He knew who he was and what he did for a living and he was smart enough to realize that it was illegal. Gary Anders didn't try to brag to Aurors about the nature of his work.

Which all changed when Mr. Scrimgeour started asking questions about Harry Riddle. Gary became enraged before the name even left Mr. Scrimgeour's lips; started spitting that Riddle had been "spreading lies" about the difficulties of their work for years. Years. Gary became so agitated he forgot that he wasn't supposed to admit that he and his brother made a living trafficking Muggle goods.

They were unable to get anything else out of him after that. Mr. Scrimgeour stunned Gary again and turned his gaze towards Septimus. Immediately, Septimus tried to prepare himself for a dressing down. "Are they always that nonsensical?" Mr. Scrimgeour asked instead of sacking him as Septimus has expected.

"They're usually more incoherent," said Septimus. "This one seemed to be almost normal until you mentioned Riddle, sir."

"Were any of Mr. Bolter's suspicions about Riddle justified?"

Answering that one would be a mess under the best of circumstances. Though he'd just been proven sort of right, Septimus had no interest in making Mr. Bolter sound like a senile, bitter madman overcome by Dark Magic. Not when the man’s prior record was exemplary. Most importantly, the older Auror had been fair and patient with Septimus before the whole debacle with Riddle started. If not for the death of his friends’ children at the beginning of the case, Mr. Bolter might’ve been able to fight off Grindelwald's influence.

"He was right when he said Riddle’s hiding something," said Septimus. "I only disagreed with him when he started saying Riddle’s probably the one behind the raids." It was the most diplomatic answer he could come up with.

Mr. Scrimgeour looked like he was going to ask more questions, but a sudden pop coming from the entrance to The Cauldron interrupted him. Septimus turned around with his wand on hand, but it was only Riddle and Annie Moreau. He lowered his wand right away, but the other Aurors around the room waited until Mr. Scrimgeour gestured at them to do the same.

"I'm glad the two of you have returned," said Mr. Scrimgeour as he walked forward, motioning for Septimus to follow him.

"We want to clarify what happened tonight," said Riddle, though he angled his body so that Ms. Moreau was behind him.

"Mr. Weasly will question Miss Moreau," said Mr. Scrimgeour. "I will question you, Mr. Riddle."

Riddle and Miss Moreau looked at each other and nodded, then Mr. Scrimgeour started to walk up the stairs and Riddle followed him.

Septimus smiled at Miss Moreau and started walking towards the backroom. He noticed Miss Moreau looking cautiously towards the spot where the owner of The Cauldron was killed and only followed when she saw that his body had been removed. Once they were inside the kitchens, Septimus looked at Miss Moreau for a suggestion. Letting her choose where to sit might set her at ease. Finally, she sat at the head of the large cooking table and pulled out the chair next her, smiling softly at Septimus before motioning at him to sit down. "Miss Moreau," started Septimus after he sat down. "Can you recount the events of the night? Please include as many details as you remember."

"Please, call me Annie," she answered, then took a deep breath. "I was minding the front during the dinner rush hour. Harry was back here with Tom. There was a shortage of beef stew. . ." She shook her head lightly. "Anyway, one of the attackers—the older one—came up to the counter and asked to see Harry. He said the Anders wanted to see him. Harry didn't tell me anything about any Anders, so I told them they had the wrong place," she stopped for a moment and looked at the table.

Septimus smiled at her when she looked up. "Go on."

"Then the other one grabbed my arm and started yelling. He smelled of Firewhiskey. Then one of the other costumers yelled something else and one of the Anders turned around and cursed at him. I pushed at his eyes—the one who was holding my arm—and he had to let me go." Annie took another deep breath and looked away.

"You're doing very well," said Septimus. "You can take a few moments to compose yourself, if you like."

She sighed heavily before continuing. "I fell to the floor and used a Shielding Charm. Then Tom came from the backroom and someone hit him with a curse. I tried to get to him but there was too much blood. . . Harry pulled into the back and told me to take Tommy—the baby—and run. I did. I got out through the window and went to Owen's." She looked at Septimus again. "He's my fiancé."

Septimus nodded and took a few moments to write down the highlights. He preferred to do it by hand instead of using an enchanted quill. There was always the risk of missing details but witnesses were less nervous when they didn't have to worry about an enchanted quill.

Annie's testimony made sense so Septimus expected it to match the testimonies of the other witnesses Aurors had managed to round up. He asked Annie a few other questions (Did the Anders look impaired? Were they regular customers?) and for the most part, she was cooperative.

Her helpful mood only changed when Septimus started questioning her about Riddle.

"Harry doesn't know how he killed that wizard," she insisted firmly "He was scared and his magic did it alone."

Septimus tried to be patient. It was true that wizards tended to use magic subconsciously when they were afraid, but they did not produce magic as efficient or as ruthless as Riddle's curse had been. "Why did he run when we got here then?"

"Because he was scared," Annie repeated. "He was sure you'd think he'd done it on purpose. He only came back because he wants to do the right thing."

Unfortunately, it was a logical explanation for Riddle's actions. If he subconsciously used the curse, if he was in shock, if he got scared. . . well, it would have made sense for him to run away. The way he handled Gary Anders also supported the story. Why would he use such childish methods to subdue one of the attacker if he could have consciously done what he did to Gabe Anders? If he was skilled enough to consciously do what he did to Gabe Anders, why not subdue him instead to avoid problems with the Ministry?

Either way, Annie was not going to budge, not as long as she considered Riddle her friend, so Septimus thanked her for her time and excused himself. The Healers were done with all the victims and survivors. Only a few Aurors remained scanning the room for clues.

Logically, Annie's (Riddle's) story made sense. Emotively, on the other hand . . . something didn’t fit. But Professor Dumbledore, of all people, was entangled in the mess.  _He_ seemed to be on Riddle's side, so the kid couldn't be  _that_ bad. Or so Septimus told himself.

He walked towards one of the intact tables and waited for Mr. Scrimgeour, but Riddle made his way downstairs by himself. Septimus wanted to question him, but Annie walked out of the backroom just as Septimus met his eyes. Riddle walked over to her and they spoke in low voices while Aurors shot them angry glares.

The remaining senior Auror at the scene told them that it was time to go before Septimus could approach Riddle. It would probably be best to wait for another opportunity to speak to him. Septimus might even be ordered to do it. Who could predict what would happen, by this point?

* * *

 What a shame that the one person interested in her work had turned out to be a swindler. Since meeting with him, no one else had shown any interest in her work. No one else had shown much interest in her work before meeting with him either. The majority of scholars of Wizarding History were much more interested in genealogy and development of specific branches of magic. Some were interested in different wars and conflicts.

Rosalind was probably the only one who was particularly interested in legends. The rest of academia thought that studying fairy tales and fables was for Muggles. Why should they waste time studying fake magic when they had the real thing to focus on? What was the use of spending their intellect on such trivial matters? What were they contributing to Wizarding society by investigating the origin of the Mad House-elf Myth?

It was as if she was shouting to an empty field every time she published a theory about the origin of any legend. The only time she got any response was when she discussed the Deathly Hallows, and that was mostly because it tied into discussions of ancestry and blood purity. She also got amusing (and angry) responses when she published work comparing Muggle legends to Wizarding legends, usually from the same groups of people.

For the sake of her sanity, Rosalind tried not to think about the kinds only kinds of people who took her work even remotely seriously. Mostly, she reminded herself that she worked because it pleased her, not because she was interested in any outside validation. The only reason she even published her work was so that it would be recorded somewhere. Someday, someone might even appreciate the importance of her field.

Rosalind changed into her gown and got ready for bed, deciding at the last moment to spend some time with the Grimoire. The last page she's deciphered claimed that the Resurrection Stone had the power to "take a wizard to the realm between life and death, where time and space became singular." It was all quite entertaining.

She was halfway through a page written in multicolored ink when she heard something scratching her window.

When she got up to investigate, wand in hand, she found an owl with tawny feathers and huge yellow eyes. It was carrying letter from Professor Dumbledore.

_Dear Ms. Potter,_

_I hope you're enjoying the warmer spring air. I'm contacting you on behalf of a friend who finds himself in an unfortunate situation. We fear that a Dark wizard will attempt to control his mind using Legilimency._

_I remembered that you are quite an accomplished Occlumens and we both wondered if you could spare some time to attempt to teach him the art of Occlumency. I'm referring to Mr. Harry Riddle, the boy who accompanied me when I warned you about Gellert Grindelwald. Should you accept to attempt to train him, I shall be in your debt. The matter is of the utmost urgency. A prompt response will be most appreciated._

_Sincerely, Albus Dumbledore_

Rosalind leaned against her window after finishing the letter. She was so excited about the possibility of having Albus Dumbledore "in her debt" that she didn't even immediately register what he was asking her to do. If she had him as a mediator, she might actually win audiences with representatives from non-human magical communities. She'd been trying to communicate with other magical creatures for years, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures just ignored her request for assistance.

She was about to say yes before thinking about what was being asked for her. Luckily, she came to her senses while writing 'I'd be delighted to teach Mr. Riddle Occlumency.' 

Teaching anyone to shield their mind would require Rosalind to open her own mind to them. It wasn't something she was eager to do for a boy she'd met once. Hell, it wasn’t something she was eager to do with her own mother. Still, turning down the chance to have Professor Dumbledore beholden to her didn't feel right.

After some consideration, Rosalind decided to ask Professor Dumbledore for some time to review her schedule. Her schedule was of course blank except for her tutoring sessions with Cedrella, but Professor Dumbledore didn't know that. She needed some time figure out just how badly she wanted to meet giants and merpeople.

She was about to return to her bed when she heard another owl scratching at her window. Rosalind opened it again, trying to remember any other time she’d received two owls in the same night. Most of her correspondence was from other upper class women. They usually sent their owls during late morning or early afternoon.

The new owl had brown feathers and dark eyes, so it probably wasn't from Professor Dumbledore. It’s letter was simpler and it made Rosalind’s heart lighter.

_Dear Ms. Potter,_

_My name is Astrid Lambert. I work as young children's tutor in France. Part of my work involves teaching children about the History of Magic. I admire the work you have done with regards to the history of Wizarding English folklore. I also spend time gathering information on fairy tales and fables to entertain the younger children with._

_It's my hope that I will be able to meet with you this summer. I will be spending some time in England. Perhaps with I can share some French legends with you._

_Sincerely, Astrid Lambert_


	10. Chapter 10

The sky remained stubbornly sunny throughout Tom's funeral. Harry stood behind Tom’s family and several dozen of The Cauldron’s oldest customers in a small meadow a few miles away from Hogsmeade, where Tom had always wanted his ashes to be scattered. Since both Annie and Mrs. Wilkins were attending, Harry had no choice but to bring Tommy along. Thankfully, the baby had been sleeping on Harry’s shoulder all morning without any fuss.

Annie spoke of Tom's easygoing nature and how much he'd enjoyed running The Leaky Cauldron. Her eyes were dry during her own short speech, but she cried silently when Mrs. Wilkins spoke about Tom's genuine friendship with her late husband. When it was his turn to say something, Harry thanked Tom for giving him a job without knowing who he was and letting him bring Tommy to work.

Silently, he apologized for causing his death and for not feeling worse about it. He was just so hollow after watching so many people die.

Tom's brother was married with several children. He owned a small pub at the edge of Edinburgh which somehow managed to serve Muggles and wizards alike, but the man could barely hide his excitement at the prospect of running the most successful pub in Wizarding England. Since he had a rather large family, he politely told Harry and Annie that he would not need their services.

Harry added another entry to the list of things he should be feeling guilty about. Thanks to him, Annie was now unemployed.

In an attempt to make some amends, Harry took half the money he'd managed to save over the last five months working for Tom and gave it to Annie. She'd been reluctant to take it, but Harry insisted. Hopefully she didn’t realize it was also his way of saying goodbye because the last thing Harry needed was for Dumbledore to find out what he planned to do.

Or maybe Annie just be grateful to be rid of him.

Harry needed to take Tommy and get as far away from Europe as possible. Preferably, he'd be able to find some isolated place to make a home. Harry brought death and chaos with him wherever he went and he didn't understand why he'd been trying to have a normal life for so very long. The less people got involved with him, the better.

Harry sighed and turned to lie face down on the lumpy hotel bed he’d rented for the night. Lien was rather unhappy to be stuck in her cage, but Harry tuned out her indignant hoots easily. Tommy was mercifully sound asleep so Harry let himself hope that he would start sleeping through the night soon. Having Tommy awake every few hours would be much more disruptive now that Harry wasn't tending a pub during nights.

Leaving England was be the best thing he could do to repay everyone for all they'd done for him. Annie would probably be all right. She had a lot of friends and hopefully the money Harry left would last her until she found a new job. Mrs. Wilkins would miss Tommy, but Harry thought it best to leave while her memories of him were still good. He still wasn't convinced that Tommy wouldn't prove to be a dangerous psychopath the moment he was old enough to feel greed and pride.

Most importantly, everyone in the future would be safer if Harry and Tommy disappeared. It was unforgivable that it'd taken Harry so long to arrive at the conclusion. He should have left right after Grindelwald sent wizards to attack him at the Albright brewery.

Forget Grindelwald. He should have left England the moment he got Tommy out of the orphanage.

If he wanted to minimize Tommy's chances of turning evil, Harry should keep the brat out of Hogwarts. Being sorted into Slytherin undoubtedly helped little Tom Riddle along in the path of racist megalomania. How could he grow up to buy into the blood purity nonsense if he never found out he was the heir of Slytherin? He’d probably still grow into a psychopath but the weird, self-hating, racist part of it all might be averted. If nothing else.

Yes, leaving Britain was the most logical course of action. Harry could even use Muggle transportation. He could sell all his gold for Muggle currency and get on whatever ship would take them farthest from the British Isles. It was illegal to sell Wizarding gold for Muggle currency, but Harry honestly didn't care anymore. He hadn't cared about the Ministry in a very long time. Besides, if they knew what Harry knew, they'd be paying him to get out of the country.

Dumbledore might be upset if Harry just took off, but it was doubtful that he'd actually try to find them. Dumbledore was a busy man. He had Hogwarts classes to think about, first of all. Then, there were all the personal affairs he had to handle, though Harry was hard pressed to name even one (Family? Research? Travel? Grindelwald?). Even if he wasn't involved with the Ministry yet, there was plenty to keep Dumbledore too busy to chase after Harry.

Still, Harry had to admit that Dumbledore had done more to help him in five months than the Dumbledore of his time had done in seventeen years. If only there was a way to at least thank him for that . . .

What could be better than thanks than getting Voldemort out of his life?

It wasn’t like Dumbledore needed him for anything else. He’d stopped Grindelwald without any hindrance from Harry once before. Or he would. Damn the tenses.

Decision made, Harry tried to think of which country he should move to. Ideally, the place should be far away and the people should speak English. That narrowed down the choices down to Canada, The United States, and Australia. Off the top of Harry’s head anyway.

Harry’s knowledge of all the suitable countries was equally shallow. He knew Canada was very cold all the time, so it was best not to take a baby used to milder weather there. His choices were further limited to the remaining to America and Australia.

All he really could remember about Australia was that it was beautiful, but filled with poisonous predators in every region. As for the United States, he remembered that it was huge, rich, and that its people loved guns. Honestly, he barely knew English history, so he couldn't say how either country was economically, socially, or politically. He'd just get the money and go to whichever was cheapest to get to.

Annie and Mrs. Wilkins would worry themselves to an early grave . . . unless Harry owled them once he was well on his way just to let them know he and the baby were alright. He was still trying to decide how to begin his letter to Annie when he heard a knock on the door.

He’d told no one where he was.

Preparing to take Tommy and Disapparate if necessary, Harry cautiously looked through the peephole. It was the redheaded Auror who reminded him of Ron.

Almost instantly, Harry wanted to let him through the door. He missed Ron as much as he would have missed his right arm.

But it wasn’t Ron behind the door.

The Auror had been at Tom's funeral as well. At first, Harry expected questions but the Auror hadn’t approached him or Annie and simply stood with the mourners in grim silence. Maybe he was kind, like the Weasleys had been. Would be.

Sighing, Harry opened the door. He was planning to break the law soon. Better not to give the Aurors any more reasons to be suspicious.

The flat and unfriendly words he'd planned to say got caught up somewhere in his throat when the redhead smiled uncertainly at him. He couldn't be rude to a Weasley even if he tried.

Up close, Harry the Auror didn't actually resemble Ron all that much. He was taller and lankier and his hair was straighter, thicker, and longer than Ron's had been. His eyes had little crow’s feet at the corners, though he couldn’t be much older than Harry. Something about the set of his jaw and the angle of his nose reminded Harry of Lucius Malfoy, of all people. His posture, on the other hand, was almost identical to Ron's.

"Can I help you?" Harry asked after a few awkward moments, then almost winced at how confrontational he sounded.

"I'm Septimus Weasley," the redhead said, hands still in his pockets. Maybe with his hand curled around his wand. "I'm an Auror trainee. I want to ask you a few questions."

"Did Scrimgeour send you?" asked Harry, motioning inside the room.

"No," answered Septimus, shaking his head. "Well, he sent me, but not to ask questions. At least, not the questions I plan to ask."

"What questions do you plan to ask?" Just the fact that he was willing to go against Scrimgeour's orders made Harry more willing to trust him.

"If you're a German runaway, why did you adopt Merope Ga—Riddle's baby?"

". . . Because Merope and I were friends," tried Harry.

"That's a lie," challenged Septimus right away.

"How would you know?" demanded Harry as he leaned against the door, arms crossed and feet slightly apart. He was a crap at lying to people when he cared about them, but he'd had plenty of practice lying to people working for the Ministry.

"Because Merope's family wouldn't have let her be friends with a man, especially one whose blood purity couldn't be determined," said Septimus.

Harry had to admit that he had a point.

"We were friends in secret," Harry clarified.

"All right, sure," said Septimus, rolling his eyes lightly. "Why's Grindelwald after you?"

Harry figured he should keep his lies to the Ministry as consistent as possible. "I used to work for him," he started. "Then he started experimenting on humans and I tried to tell the German Aurors." It was what he'd told Scrimgeour. He'd then owled Dumbledore in case the Ministry decided to question him.

"Why didn't you try to warn us when you realized he was here?" asked Septimus.

"I warned Dumbledore."

"And you thought that would be enough? You must have known what Grindelwald would do. Why did you let Mr. Bolter and I chase around for a ghost? You could've told us who was behind the Muggle raids all this time," said Septimus, frowning more with every word.

"I didn't know about the raids," lied Harry. "You know the Ministry keeps the bad news out of the Daily Prophet."

At that, Septimus snorted loudly.

Harry glared and gestured at Tommy pointedly.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Septimus whispered harshly. "If you knew what Grindelwald was doing in Europe, then you knew what he would do here."

"So what?" Harry retorted. "Going to arrest me because you suspect I had information I didn't give the Aurors?"

"You know I can't," Septimus said bitterly. "Professor Dumbledore is protecting you, though I can't say I understand why."

Even though he knew this Weasley wasn't one of the ones who knew him, Harry couldn't help but feel ashamed at his obvious disappointment. His stomach felt hollow, and his hands were curling into fists at his sides. Thankfully, Tommy started crying before Harry could make a fool of himself with poor attempts at justifying his actions.

Tommy’s diaper was clean and Harry had fed him less than an hour ago. He probably just wanted the kind of attention he’d grown accustomed to at the Cauldron but Harry was in no mood to be making funny faces, so Tommy had been pretty restless and bored since they'd left the Cauldron two nights ago.

Harry settled for putting him on the floor and getting him Mrs. Wilkins' blasted bell. Tommy started banging it against the floor immediately and Harry started rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. Tommy stopped crying but looked at Harry and pouted. The brown eyes that dominated his tiny face were full of reproach.

"I don't think you're a bad person," he heard Septimus say.

Harry swallowed back bile. Like he needed approval from some Scrimgeour lackey.

Septimus tried to meet his gaze. "Why didn't you try to warn us? Can you answer that truthfully?"

He hadn't tried to help the Ministry because there was no one there he trusted. How could he? In his time at least, the Ministry had been more concerned with its public image than with the safety of the Wizarding World. It didn't seem like things were any different now.

"The Ministry wouldn't have believed me," said Harry. "I had no proof. Besides, they're more concerned with looking safe than being safe."

"I don't know how the Germans run their ministry, but that's not the way we do things here," said Septimus.

"Oh, really?" Harry challenged, thinking of I must not tell lies carved on his right hand. "Then why hasn't the Daily Prophet reported on any of the Muggle raids? Why did it report that two Dark wizards attacked the Cauldron because they were driven mad by their own spells?"

"What exactly is the Ministry supposed to report?" Septimus retorted. "That there's a powerful Dark wizard—powerful enough that Albus Dumbledore considers him a threat—randomly picking men and driving them mad with an unknown form of Legilimency? That there's still no known way to defend against it besides Occlumency—an obscure form of magic that very few people can hope to understand, let alone master?"

Now it was Harry who couldn't help but feel disappointed. Did everyone in the Ministry think that keeping people in the dark was the right way to prevent people like Grindelwald and Voldemort from rising to power?

Harry picked up Tommy again and took his bell away. He really couldn't stand the sound of it. Entertaining Tommy with magic sparkles was way less irritating.

"People have a right to know what's happening," he insisted. "Even if you think they're all too weak and stupid to defend themselves."

"Making Grindelwald's existence public when we have no way of defending against him will only make people panic," argued Septimus. "It'd just be helping him in the long run. The best thing to do is try to keep his actions from the general public and take him down quietly."

"Why did Scrimgeour send you here?" asked Harry. He had no desire to have a philosophical argument about the Ministry's supposed right and duty to keep the Wizarding World from having to face their problems for as long as possible. "And how did you find me anyway?"

"This is the cheapest Muggle hotel I could find within a two kilometer radius of the Leaky Cauldron," answered Septimus. "And Mr. Scrimgeour sent me to offer you a job."

". . . What?"

"Mr. Scrimgeour has a deal with Professor Dumbledore, so he can't really arrest you," explained Septimus. "Having you work for him would be the next best thing."

Harry opened his mouth but he had so many protests he didn't even know how to start. How could he explain how viscerally absurd he found the idea of working for the Ministry? He finally settled for asking the one question Septimus might know the answer to.

"Why were you sent to . . . hire me?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly told this outright . . . but it was probably because I'm the youngest person working at the Auror office," answered Septimus with a small shrug. "And I have a reputation for . . . setting people at ease."

". . . No," said Harry, still swirling little lights in front of Tommy's face.

"No, I don’t set you at ease?" asked Septimus. "Or no to the job offer?"

"Both," Harry answered and reached for his bag. He pulled out one of the baby books and gave it to Tommy before putting him on the floor again.

"Why not?"

"Why don’t you set me at ease?" asked Harry. "Or why don't I want to take a job from a man who would rather arrest me?"

"It's not like you have any other prospects," said Septimus. "Who else will be willing to hire you with a baby to look after?"

"I'll figure something out," said Harry.

"The pay would be generous," Septimus continued, undeterred by what Harry thought was his obvious unwillingness to negotiate. "Certainly better than whatever you could earn working as a pub server."

"And what exactly would my job be?" Harry asked impatiently. "I didn't even finish H—my schooling." Like he would spend a second under Scrimgeour’s thumb. He hadn't agreed to it back when he'd been offered the all important position of Ministry mascot.

"Muggle Affairs Consultant," said Septimus. "Believe it or not, it's one of the best jobs in the Ministry, mostly because it could mean almost anything. You'd be able to negotiate your own hours and salary. It's a running joke that half the Muggle Affairs Consultants are actually Unspeakables in disguise."

Harry frowned. He wouldn't be persuaded by promises of glamour or importance. Besides, anything coming from Scrimgeour would be no more than a gilded cage.

Tommy started crying again so Harry gave up on toys and went to pick him up. "Get out," he said, bouncing Tommy on his arm. "Close the door behind you," he said as an afterthought. He wouldn't work for the Ministry, even if he stayed in England. The place was crawling with sycophants more interested in looking good than doing their jobs.

Tommy wailed louder, prompting Harry to stare at his face for any signs that something was bothering him besides boredom.

He heard Septimus start to walk away, but he didn't hear the door opening. "You're planning to run away again, aren't you?" asked Septimus. "That's why you don't even want to consider the possibility of a job with the Ministry."

Harry looked directly at Septimus. "I'm not considering it because the Ministry is full of incompetent morons.”

"No," insisted Septimus. "If you were going to stay, you wouldn't turn down employment so easily. Not with a baby to consider. You're leaving."

"You don't know anything about me," said Harry. Childish things to say were often so painfully and meaninglessly true.

"Professor Dumbledore cared about you enough to blackmail the Head Auror to keep you out of Azkaban," Septimus started. "Annie Moreau refused to say anything against you to everyone who questioned her, even after she and her fiancé were attacked because of you. She defended you again when the Anders nearly killed her!"

"I know what Annie's done for me!" Harry yelled. Tommy screamed louder and tried to squirm out of Harry’s grasp but Harry ignored him. One of his neighbors banged on the wall, but Harry ignored that too. "I was there!"

"And you're leaving anyway," said Septimus. His nose scrunched up, like he'd smelled something vile. "Who do you think Grindelwald will go to first when you disappear?"

Harry looked away. Septimus was right. If he left, Grindelwald would go after Annie first. He could ask Dumbledore to protect her, but then he'd have to admit he was leaving the country.

"I'm only making things worse by being here," he told Septimus.

"Maybe you're right," Septimus agreed. "But if you leave now, Grindelwald is going to kill anyone who was friendly to you." He turned around and walked out of the room.

Harry stood up and started pacing around the room in an attempt to calm Tommy down. Septimus was completely right. If he left, he would be signing Annie's death sentence. But staying wasn't doing her any favors by staying either.

"Please stop crying," he begged Tommy in a low voice. "Please stop crying." He doubted Tommy was even hearing anything over his own screams.

Finally, Harry just went back to bed and laid Tommy down next to him. He'd get tired of crying eventually. In the meantime, Harry needed to decide what to do.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore hadn't owled her since she asked for time to think about his request to teach Harry Riddle Occlumency. Two days wasn’t a significant amount of time so Rosalind refused to succumb to the urge to send him another owl accepting his request. Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t find another Occlumens in less than a week.

Better to focus on making sure the Potter crest adorning the drawing room’s mantelpiece was gleaming. And the Potter house elf couldn’t be faulted if she missed dust marring the golden knobs falling from the chandelier, could she? Or if the yellow rug started to look too pale.

Though what exactly she planned to do with the time she’d asked for was a mystery, even to her. No amount of thinking was going to make Rosalind comfortable with the idea of opening her mind to a complete stranger.

Rosalind learned from her mother, who’d learned from her mother. Their close relationship had actually been an obstacle in the latter part of Rosalind's training. She’d trusted her mother implicitly so she'd felt no real instinctive desire to shield her mind from her. Like any witch, she had a lot of trouble making her magic go against her emotions.

At the very least, she wouldn't have that problem if she agreed to teach Mr. Riddle. Not that she was even sure that Professor Dumbledore still needed her because he was undoubtedly an accomplished Occlumens himself.

Rosalind sighed heavily and resolved to put the matter out of her mind. She'd wait two more days for Professor Dumbledore to contact her and if he didn't, she'd know her services were no longer necessary. Rosalind would be disappointed to have lost the opportunity to build a professional relationship with Professor Dumbledore, but she'd also be relieved at not having to join minds with some stranger.

For the time being, she had other affairs to attend to. For starters, she had relatively few lessons left with Cedrella at it was imperative that they spend some time on magic theory, especially those pertaining to the first few spells Cedrella would learn at Hogwarts. It would help Cedrella adjust to life at the school much quicker if she wasn't overwhelmed by schoolwork right away.

Rosalind was unspeakably proud of Cedrella and the progress they’d both made. The girl had grown much more confident in her opinions and though she was still ashamed of her interest in Muggles, she was willing to discuss it. At least if Rosalind made it sound like part of an assignment.

Of course, Cedrella was still deeply prejudiced. She was skeptical when Rosalind suggested that Muggles showed considerable resilience and intelligence in order to survive without magic. Cedrella could not overlook the many ways that Muggles struggled to catch up to Wizarding standards of living. How could people who did not even know how to cure a common cold or sore throat be anything other than inferior?

Still, Rosalind thought she was making progress. If Cedrella began to respect Muggles, then she would feel no shame at being fascinated by their culture. Maybe Rosalind should teach her about Muggle farming methods. The way they managed to grow such huge quantities of food was impressive. The subject of Chemistry was even more fascinating. Quite frankly, Rosalind had been floored the first time she learned about the substances Muggles had managed to create by mixing perfectly mundane items. And without a speck of magic!

If nothing else, Rosalind had found a perfect partner to discuss her work with. And since Cedrella had no fear of appearing silly, she often asked very basic questions that even Rosalind herself forgot to consider. It was one of the wonders of being a child.

Rosalind smiled to herself as she finished preparing her personal drawing room, though she had to admit it’d been spotless before she started. Hopefully, she'd have an older person to discuss her work with after today. Unlike Professor Dumbledore, Astrid Lambert had owled back promptly and they had scheduled a meeting for later in the day.

She finished arranging the room to her liking and sat down on her favorite armchair, ready to catch up on her reading before Astrid Lambert arrived. The latest installment of Bellena Ruell's Enchanting Maid series had been published just a few days ago. It was about a gorgeous Muggleborn witch who'd fallen in love with the heir of a fictional Pureblood family while working as the family's maid. Rosalind loved the series, partly because it'd been infuriating England's Pureblood families for about six years now.

She couldn't tell if the books were a parody or not. The author didn't even bother to explain why an old Pureblood family would actually hire a maid when they should have at least one house elf. Other aspects of the story read like scathing commentary on the social structures of the Wizarding World. For example, the main character was more skilled at magic than the hero's Pureblood fiancé because she'd spent much more time studying while all the characters were at Hogwarts. The fiancé also happened to be the hero's first cousin by the way.

Most of the Wizarding World decried the books worthless trash, but they were bestsellers anyway. Thanks to the liberal inclusion of raunchy sex scenes, most likely, but they were undoubtedly helping the incredibly isolated Wizarding World aware of its many problems. Wizarding society was stagnating. It had been stagnating for centuries.

Most witches and wizards avoided pushing boundaries of any kind. New magic hadn't been developed in any field for almost a century. The obsession with blood purity was slowly diminishing the population of the Wizarding world. No one liked to admit it but the casualties caused by the Great Muggle War exacerbated the problem, not caused it. The Wizarding World was growing more and more dependent on Muggles, but that was only increasing anti-Muggle prejudice.

Rosalind was in the middle of a scene where Belinda the maid was desperately trying to magically modify an old bath gown into a proper dress robe when Hattie popped in to announce Astrid Lambert, who sat in front of Rosalind without a single attempt at a social smile.

Ms. Lambert was a tall woman with a thick black braid lain over a wide, imposing shoulder. She wore plain grey robes that did little to hide her full figure despite their lack of a stylistic cut. Her face was not only devoid of paint and blush, it also looked mostly blank. Ageless too, like Ms. Lambert didn’t use her facial muscles often enough to create wrinkles.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Rosalind decided to speak up. "I was surprised to receive a visit from your owl," she said. "There aren't many people interested in my line of work."

". . . Most people have no use for fairy tales," said Ms. Lambert, with an impeccable English accent.

Rosalind bristled and didn’t bother to hide it. "Why do you want to speak to me if you think so?" she asked.

"I would have use for them," said Ms. Lambert, seemingly unaware that she had said something insensitive about Rosalind's work. "They are a useful tool in teaching children.”

"I agree," said Rosalind. "I'm tutoring a child who's benefitting greatly by reading a varied selection fictional works. It's been an excellent way to discuss her emotions without having to make her voice them directly."

"What kinds of fictional works?" asked Ms. Lambert.

"Several genres," said Rosalind. "Historical fiction has been particularly useful. It's perfect for sparking an interest in history among children." She would say something about the surprising usefulness of Muggle fiction, but she was uncomfortable speaking about that aspect of her relationship with Cedrella. The child was still ashamed of it.

"I have a fondness for rare volumes," said Ms. Lambert suddenly.

Rosalind waited for her to elaborate but she said nothing else. "Rare volumes of any specific genre?" Rosalind prompted.

". . . Instruction manuals," Ms. Lambert clarified. "It's quite useful to see how things were done long ago."

"Yes," Rosalind agreed. "However, that's not the area of history I specialized in. I could direct you towards a colleague with similar interests to yours."

"I would prefer you did not," said Ms. Lambert. "I'm currently looking for legends and fairy tales. My employers in France have recently acquired custody of quite a young child."

"I'm sure I can recommend some appropriate volumes then," Rosalind offered.

She expected that to be the end of the visit, but Ms. Lambert was strangely determined to stay even though she wasn't the best conversationalist. Rosalind recommended some books and Ms. Lambert made her describe them all in considerable detail. She recommended some scholars to consult and Ms. Lambert made her describe them in depth as well.

The woman was unwilling or unable to contribute much to the conversation, but Rosalind was too polite to ask her to leave. Finally, she made up a previous engagement and managed to get Ms. Lambert to take her leave.

Merlin take the woman back to France before she made good on a threat to visit Rosalind once more. Lecturing a statue might be less frustrating than trying to have a conversation with her. At least a statue was easy to escape.

Rosalind would have refused to meet her again, but Ms. Lambert's next owl brought something to make Rosalind willing to spend another unpleasant afternoon with her. Somehow, Ms. Lambert acquired a centuries-old volume about Reynard, the legendary wizard who'd first managed to become an Animagus. Legends said that he'd used his newfound ability to turn into a fox and then started to trick and scare unsuspecting Muggles who eventually started worshiping him. Rosalind would spend several months in Ms. Lambert's inane company if it meant she could examine the book for a single hour.

* * *

_Dear Albus,_

_I'm sure you're sitting at some boring desk, reading some idiot child's stupid essay, desperately trying not to think about me. You're most likely pretending that you're not delighted that I'm back in England, but we both know the truth. You're bored and no amount of time spent staring at Dragon's blood is going to fill the void that is my absence from your life._

_To be completely honest, my latest antics are at least partly driven by my desire to give you something entertaining to do for once. The study of the mind always made you uncomfortable, though you were once willing enough to practice your fledging Legilimency skills on some particular Muggles. Perhaps if you'd continued, you would be able to understand how I'm cultivating such an eager, if not exactly competent, crop of dedicated Muggle hunters._

_It's my hope that being forced to work with the Ministry of Magic will give you no choice but to come around to my way of thinking again. The imbecilic and pedantic laws the current governments of the Wizarding World spouse will only lead to our doom. Secrecy will lead to our extinction at the hands of a race too stupid to understand the ways of universe. The Muggles have been rejected by nature, yet we allow them to rule and destroy the world without protest._

_I must admit that I spent a shameful amount of time worrying about your reaction to my presence. For a while, I did my best to avoid your attention. By the time I wanted it again, it seemed like you had decided to ignore my existence no matter what I did. If I had known all it would take to capture your interest would be a moody teenager, I would have sent one your way years ago._

_With the utmost love,_

_Gellert._

_P. S.: Give Harry my most sincere greetings_

Only Gellert could make the fireplace in Albus’ private chambers at Hogwarts oppressive. Albus extinguished the flames, perhaps more aggressively than necessary, and settled back on his favorite armchair. Momentarily, the old patterns adorning Hogwarts wallpaper - so often fascinating in their evolving artistry which chronicled centuries of different art styles - made him feel like a bug trapped in amber.

The words themselves were nothing he hadn't heard from Gellert before. The usual passive aggressive tone was oddly comforting, really. Even when he was trying to be hostile, Gellert couldn't help but wrap his insults in misleading honey. He was committing awful atrocities, but at least it was entertaining Albus. Turning Albus's life upside down was not worth feeling guilty over because it was secretly what Albus wanted.

It was why it'd taken Albus so long to accept that Gellert was a madman. Yes, most of his plans were negligent if not dangerous, his experiments were unethical when they were not psychotic, and his professed love for Albus never exceeded his love for himself. But Gellert had always been so skilled at finding people's weaknesses.

In the short time they'd been together, Gellert had always known what made Albus unhappy, sometimes before Albus could piece the clues together himself. How could someone so attentive and emphatic be evil?

But he was evil, though there was enough humanity left in him to make him pretend he wasn't traipsing about causing meaningless mayhem. The only problem was that it didn't take much for him to justify his actions as necessary. So what if some people needed to die? It was all worth it if helped Gellert's purpose in the end.

His didn't always use his considerable insight into other people's psyche kindly either. Gellert could drive a person to despair as easily as he could drive them to euphoria. He could inspire tranquility, or drive a person mad with anxiety.

As obnoxious as the message was, it did accomplish Gellert's goal. Albus had already been playing with a particularly eerie theory about Harry's origins. He'd discarded the idea that Harry was knowingly working with Gellert soon after meeting him. Geller was incapable of working well with anyone. He had sycophants, not genuine friends or even allies. His relationship with Albus had fallen apart because Gellert had expected a powerful and intelligent follower, not a partner.

Harry wasn’t particularly powerful or intelligent, at least not enough to pique Gellert’s interest, but he appeared to be suffering from a psychological impairment.

One of the reasons Albus had decided to end his association with Gellert had been the man's determination to learn how to utterly control a person's mind. Gellert wanted to go beyond the Imperius Curse, which only turned a person into a mindless prisoner who needed near constant monitoring. Even at such a young age, he'd been experimenting with the possibility of altering all of a person's memories until their entire personalities had been replaced with whatever suited him.

Though it shamed him to think about it now, Gellert had managed to secure Albus' help by convincing him that such a technique would make it easy for wizards to turn Muggles into docile slaves. With such a sophisticated form of magic, wizards could strip Muggles of their violent tendencies. There'd be no need to hide from them if they all believe that it was natural and good to serve wizards. There wouldn't even be a need to mistreat them if they all loved wizard the same way that House-elves did!

Such a thing was mercifully impossible and Albus hoped it remained so forever. Gellert had been suggesting something more terrifying than murder.

Obviously, Gellert was still trying to learn how to use Legilimency to accomplish the same goal that had driven them apart so long ago. He'd gotten good enough at Legilimency to inspire irrational anger or mindless adoration. The wizards Albus had examined at St. Mungo's were still themselves, but their minds had been so subtly but extensively damaged that it was possible they'd never be whole again.

All the evidence suggested that Gellert had accomplished that kind of manipulation and psychological erosion in a very short time. There was no telling what he could do to people if he could get his hands on them long enough. Altering the minds of children, whose personalities and temperament were still emerging, would be much easier. It would be incredibly time consuming, yes, but magical experimentation was the only endeavor Gellert could engage in with infinite patience.

Harry had no previous history. Gellert could have gotten his hands on him a long time ago. He was disoriented, emotionally volatile, irrational, and he was convinced that he'd been born in the future. His resemblance to Gellert's other victims could be a coincidence, but Albus doubted it. The most expedient way to test his new hypothesis—that Harry had been extensively brainwashed by Gellert for some unknown purpose—was to take a look inside Harry's mind.

Albus could just find the boy right now and use Legilimency to see if he showed any evidence of extensive mental manipulation. Harry really had no real skill with Occlumency and even if he did, there was no chance of him being powerful enough to resist Albus. His ability to even sense and recognize Albus' lone attempt at using Legilimency on him was surprising considering Albus hadn't sensed even rudimentary mental shields when he'd attempted to examine him.

There were reasons to exercise caution, however. Albus wasn't certain that Gellert was so intimately connected with Harry. First, why would Gellert convince a potential mind slave that he was a time traveler? Second, why would Gellert allow a potential mind slave to adopt a random English orphan? Lastly—and most importantly—why would Gellert allow a potential mind slave to get to England and contact Albus?

If his theory was wrong and he entered Harry's mind without permission, he'd damage their relationship forever. Albus would irreparably destroy whatever tenuous sense of trust Harry had for him.

An owl from Septimus Weasley interrupted Albus’ troubled thoughts and roused him from his favorite arm chair.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_I'm owling you because I think Harry Riddle is planning to run away again. He's staying at the Muggle inn The Comfort Zone, located 1.5 kilometers east of the Leaky Cauldron. If he goes, Grindelwald will kill everyone who tried to help him. Please, stop him._

_With respect, Septimus Weasley_


	11. Chapter 11

Annie would rather spend her afternoon getting rid of all the cracks and holes in Owen’s wall without being overcome with worries about Harry and Tom but she’d never been any good at meditation. Which was probably why she’d always had so much trouble with the more complex, incantation-less branches of magic.

The last time she saw Harry, he'd handed over a considerable amount of money. He would have so much to spare, considering he didn’t need to pay rent, didn’t care to buy new clothes, and was content to live off Cauldron leftovers. Even his owl only got whatever wasn’t sold by the end of the day. Even Tommy’s clothes had been provided by Mrs. Wilkins.

As far as Annie could tell, Harry only spent money on basic spell books and Florean's ice cream. He seemed content enough to live like a beggar even though he made more money than Annie. He'd bought a new pair of boots and a pair of running shoes and not much else. Annie wouldn't be surprised if it turned out he messily cut his own hair.

Annie had assumed that he was sending most of the money he earned to family members. It was what she did. Much to her surprise, Harry had turned up at Owen's flat with about three month's worth of pay to give her the day after they were gently dismissed by Tom's brother. Harry hadn't been supporting some hidden family. He'd just been putting away most of what he earned at Gringotts.

It didn't change the fact that Annie felt a little guilty about taking so much money from him. Harry was young. It could be that he'd never had to worry about money before, even if his family had been abusive. If he really was a Potter, it was likely that he'd never had to work for a meal in his life before he started at the Cauldron. He'd been very fortunate to get a job with Tom, who gave him permission to eat as much as he needed and didn't charge rent.

He wouldn't be so lucky a second time. Not even Annie was expecting to find such generous employment again. Most pubs were run by families so whatever new job she managed to find would not include room and board as payment. She'd already told her parents that she'd be giving them even less money because her boss had died and she'd need to find another job.

Quite frankly, her desire to spare her aging parents some hardship was the reason Annie had taken Harry's money despite the rude awakening she felt was on its way for him.

And obviously, Harry had been so insistent she take the money because he was planning to take off. Annie was debating whether she should owl Professor Dumbledore about it as she transfigured the cracks in Owen's wall away. Damn that bastard landlord for ignoring their many, many complaints about the deterioration everywhere in the teeny-tiny flat he was using to fleece Owen out of nearly every pound he made in the ring. If he ever asked how the place was being fixed, Annie would blast him with the worst Memory Charm she could muster, risk to his mind be damned.

On the one hand, Harry was still just a teenager with a child so Annie couldn't, in good conscience, let him disappear when she knew he had no one else to help him. On the other hand, Harry technically had the right to do whatever he wanted with his life and she couldn't hope to shelter him forever.

On a more selfish hand, Annie couldn't deny that getting Harry out of her life would be a huge relief. Being around him was dangerous, even if it wasn't his fault that some deranged Dark wizard was after him. Annie had grown to care for Harry and if he asked for help, she would help him. But she would be lying if she said she didn't resent all the danger he unintentionally brought into her life.

With a shake of her head, Annie stood up and looked over the wall she'd been working on.

One of the great things about magic was that Annie could fix the homes of people she loved while spending little to no money. Now that she had some free time, Annie would go around Owen's flat cleaning and fixing all the areas that had become worn and dirty. She wanted to change the wall's color from muddy brown to pale green and with a few simple charms, she could make the narrow cabinets in the kitchen roomier. The bed she'd charmed to be suitably soft and firm the moment she'd started sleeping on it.

If the Obliviators ever caught her . . .

There were practical limitations to what she could do, of course. It would be a little suspicious if Owen owned a flat fit for a prince located in a pauper's building. Still, Annie could easily make the place comfortable without raising any red flags to Owen's Muggle visitors. She used a Color Change Charm to turn the wall green and moved on to the wall next to it. Before she could start looking for holes, she heard someone knocking at Owen's door.

Annie was expecting one of Owen's friends, but she heard a baby's muffled cries the moment she walked out of the bedroom, which made her strides wider even though she couldn’t restrain a tired sigh. When she opened the door to the outside hallway, Tommy extended his left hand to her immediately. His right index and middle fingers were in his mouth and his little face had a painful red tint to it.

She took him right away and rolled her eyes at the look of relief on Harry's face. "I don't know what's wrong with him," he said as he entered Owen's flat. "He's been screaming nonstop since last night."

Annie tried to take Tommy's hand out of his mouth, but it only made him scream louder. Harry flattened his hands against his ears and leaned against Owen’s muddy brown wall, eyes closed and brows furrowed.

Annie walked towards the kitchen. She went to the sink to wash Tommy's face. "Have been trying to comfort him?" she demanded when she heard Harry shuffle behind her.

"I've done everything I usually do," Harry answered from behind her. "He just cries louder.”

So he’d given him a baby book and flashed some lights his way when that didn't work. Harry was very attentive to Tommy's physical needs, but he wasn't physically demonstrative. When he couldn't calm Tommy down, he usually called Annie and she would hug and cuddle him. Annie thought it was just because most men were reluctant to demonstrate much affection too openly.

She'd gradually seen Harry become more comfortable around Tommy regardless. Harry could carry him around, lay him on his chest, and lightly rub his back. Unfortunately, he still balked when it looked like Tommy needed to be comforted with kisses, smiles, and hugs.

Annie finished washing his face and sat down with Tommy still on her arm. She laid him on her chest and kissed his forehead. "It's all right, honey," she said in a gentle voice. "It's all right. I love you baby."

"Does he need a healer?" Harry asked when Tommy didn't stop crying.

"Has he been throwing up?" Annie asked him. "Diarrhea?" He didn't feel too hot, so she doubted he had a fever.

"No," Harry answered. "He's only been shutting up long enough to eat."

Annie could guess what the problem was. "Go to Diagon Alley," she told Harry in a gentle voice to avoid scaring Tommy even more. She stood up to pace around the room bouncing Tommy lightly on her arm. "Get me a Calming Draught and purified water."

Harry did as she said and Annie continued babbling nonsense to Tommy in a soothing voice. At least now she knew Harry wasn't going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere with Tommy screaming at his side. But, selfish as it was, she mourned the opportunity to put Harry and his problems behind her.

She was sitting back at the chair with Tommy on her lap when Harry Apparated in the kitchen with the Calming Draught and the water.She passed him the baby, glaring until he lost the apprehensive frown. Tommy started crying even louder when Harry took him, making Harry sigh and roll his eyes theatrically.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked, pacing around the kitchen with Tommy perched on his arms, his shoulders tense and gaze angry. Annie walked to sink and looked for a baby bottle in the cabinets. "He's probably upset because you've been scowling at him all night," Annie scolded while she diluted the Calming Draught with the purified water. "And he's teething."

"I haven't been—" Harry started but Annie just looked him and raised an eyebrow. "All right, maybe I have," he conceded, shaking and grunting. "But teething? Isn't he supposed to grow teeth?"

"Yes and it hurts," snapped Annie as she capped the bottle. She walked over to Harry and held out her arms for Tommy, who all but jumped away from Harry’s chest.

Harry passed him over, without bothering to hide his relief.

Annie gave Tommy the bottle right away. "He's going to be moody until all his teeth grow out."

Thankfully, Tommy started calming down before he was even done with the bottle so she took it away before he finished. An overdose was unlikely after she diluted the potion so much, but she was no expert on proper potion dosages. Better to be safe than sorry. Tommy's eyes were already unfocused; a sharp contrast to the usually inquisitive stare he offered the world. She smiled at him brightly and gently tickled his belly. He didn't react at all. Annie would have to keep a very close eye on him for the next couple of hours.

"So I just give him Calming Draught when he starts crying?" Harry asked suddenly.

" _No!_ " Annie almost shouted. "You want him to be an addict before he learns to talk? I only gave him some because he probably has a headache if he's been crying all night."

Harry bit his lower lip and looked away. "Then what do I do when he starts crying?"

Annie sighed and started walking to Owen's room. She heard Harry shuffling along behind her. "You try your best to comfort him," said Annie as she laid Tommy down on the bed. "You'll just have to up with a moody baby until teething is over.”

Honestly, there were times Annie didn't comprehend men at all. Harry didn't even realize how lucky he was that Tommy was such an even-tempered baby. Most of the time, getting him to stop crying took a minute or two. This was probably the first time the baby had ever given any real trouble and Harry was acting like he'd been crying for a week instead of a night. She laid down on the bed and put Tommy down next her.

Harry laid down on the baby's other side. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess," he told the ceiling.

Annie sighed. "There're other things you can do," she said. "Give him a soft rubber ring to chew on, or try to feed him cold foods. Stick a clean finger in his mouth and try to lightly rub his gums."

Harry nodded and remained silent. Annie settled for looking at the ceiling as well. Maybe she could get away with making this room nicer than the rest of the flat. She bet she could charm the ceiling to look like the night sky. It’d be nowhere near as brilliant as Hogwart’s Main Hall but she might be able to make it look like a beautiful, ever-changing painting. Annie smiled and rubbed her forehead with her arm.

She turned face down on the bed and placed a hand on Tommy's belly. "I thought I wasn't going to see you again," she told Harry after a few minutes.

Tommy was sound asleep. His breathing was thankfully normal. Annie felt his belly rising at even intervals every time he took a breath.

"I was going to leave somewhere," admitted Harry. "But I talked to the Weasley—redheaded Auror and he realized what I was planning and told Dumbledore. I got a very polite owl. If I try to go, Dumbledore will gently drag my arse to Azkaban himself."

"He actually wrote that?" Annie asked with a chuckle.

"Not in those words," Harry answered with a chuckle of his own. "Do you have a job yet?"

"Haven't even looked," said Annie. "I plan to make good use of your gold."

"How about the Ministry?" asked Harry, shifting a little on the bed.

"What about it?" Annie wondered, attention still focused on Tommy. His face was losing it’s reddish tint. Hopefully, he'd be much less agitated when he woke up.

"Would you want to work there?" clarified Harry.

"They won't hire me," shrugged Annie. "They barely hire women at all." She hoped that by this point she didn't have to clarify why they'd be even less likely to hire her.

"Scrimgeour—the Head Auror—wants me to work for him," insisted Harry. "I'll just tell them I won't take the job if they don't hire you too."

"And what would I do?" asked Annie, turning over on the bed. It looked like the Calming Draught wasn't going to do anything bad to Tommy. "I'm a pub server."

"So am I," noted Harry. "They said I can be a Muggle Affairs Consultant; there's no reason you can't be that too. Why didn't you—" he started to ask. "Never mind."

Why hadn't she tried to study any specialized magic after she graduated Hogwarts? Mostly, it'd been because she couldn't afford any apprenticeships. The scholarships for Muggleborns only covered Hogwarts tuition. Some of her Muggleborn classmates had gone on to study under older, more experienced wizards if they couldn't afford any official schooling at the Ministry. They didn't have time to work while they did it though, so they had to rely on whatever their mentors chose to give them. Annie had elderly parents to consider.

"You shouldn't turn down a well paying job out some misplaced sense of loyalty to me," Annie said after while, gazed fixed on the wall she’d just spruced up. "You're going to be needing a lot of money for food, Harry."

"So are you," he responded. "And it's not fair that they won't even let you work."

"It is what it is," she said. "Besides, I have a plan. Maybe I'll start a business."

"How? I didn't give you that much gold."

"I can fix things," said annie. "Muggle things, I mean. And a little potion can cure a lot of Muggle diseases."

"But you can't tell them about magic," Harry argued.

Annie chuckled. "Who says I'll say anything about magic? I'm a _mysterious African maiden_ ," she said in a mock-dramatic tone before sobering again. "I can swear them to secrecy. Worst come to worst, I can cast basic memory charms."

Harry tried and failed to hold back a laugh. "That sounds really bloody illegal," he said between snorts.

"Take the job with the Ministry, Harry," Annie tried to convince him again, taking advantage of his sudden lighter mood. "Tommy needs his milk."

Briefly, Harry's nostrils flared. "Tom Riddle's always fine," he said, mirth gone from his voice.

Suddenly, Annie remembered something Harry said the night Tom died. But you have to be careful because he's so strong. For the first time, she got the feeling that he hadn't been talking about Grindelwald.

Annie shook her head and snorted. Who else could he have been talking about? "Why did you adopt Tommy?" she asked Harry for the first time since she'd met him. She should have asked when he admitted he wasn't even a Riddle.

Harry ignored the question. "It's best if I stay away," he said instead, lacing his fingers together before cradling his head with his hands. "People close to me die."

She tried to think of something comforting to say, but couldn't come up with anything that didn't sound hollow. As far as she knew, it was true. The only thing Annie could really do was be around when he needed someone. In the meantime, she had to get the word out to the neighborhood. A new, all-purpose repair shop was about to open at the edge of Muggle London.

* * *

Septimus was putting the finishing touches to his "I failed to get Harry Riddle to work for us" report when Riddle himself walked up to his brand new cubicle.

"Well, I'm here," Riddle snapped. "Dumbledore says to thank you for ratting on me."

"I had to think of Ms. Moreau and Mrs. Wilkins," said Septimus. "Especially if you weren't going to." He stood up and magically wiped the piece of parchment he'd been working on before walking out of his cubicle. For once, Riddle was actually wearing black robes, though Septimus noticed dark brown trousers disappearing into his boots.

He motioned for Riddle to follow him and set out for Mr. Scrimgeour's office. "You'll have to speak to Mr. Scrimgeour first.”

Riddle nodded but didn't say anything else.

Septimus walked into the main office and asked Mr. Scrimgeour's secretary to announce Riddle. They actually went into Mr. Scrimgeour's office right away and left Septimus waiting outside. Even the assistant's office was bigger than most of the cubicles the Aurors worked in. Their job was mostly politics and fundraising, so maybe they needed the more space. Most Aurors spent the majority of their time in the field anyway.

There was a good chance that Septimus' new job would be to babysit Riddle. Mr. Bolter was still at St. Mungo's, heavily sedated to prevent him from hurting himself or other people. Septimus had been expecting to be assigned to another senior Auror, but Mr. Scrimgeour had just signed his certification and promoted him on the spot. Septimus couldn't even begin to guess why and was so confused about it that he still introduced himself as a trainee. Worst of all, he'd have to spend the next few years teaching himself all the magic Mr. Bolter had failed to teach him on account of losing his mind.

Most Aurors were getting a little paranoid they might all lose it at any second. Prior to this particular mess, Mr. Bolter had been a semi-legend. He'd survived the worst of the Great Muggle War mostly unscathed when a large number of Aurors had been killed. Or succumbed to alcoholism and too many Calming Draughts. Watching him fall so quickly and so harshly had shaken everyone's confidence. Septimus would be lying if he said it hadn't affected him too.

Now Mr. Scrimgeour was about to hand him the closest lead they had on Grindelwald. Yet another thing Septimus couldn't even begin to explain. It wasn't like there weren't plenty of older, more experienced Aurors willing to investigate Riddle like Nifflers tracking a gold smuggler. It couldn't be that Mr. Scrimgeour really thought his age would make it that much more likely that Riddle would trust him. There was just no reason logical reason to put such an important aspect of such a delicate case on Septimus' amateur hands.

Septimus was still waiting for Mr. Scrimgeour to finish with Riddle when Mr. Farwell and Albert Diggory walked into the office. Mr. Farwell was the short, balding with a flat nose Auror officially in charge of the Grindelwald case now that Mr. Bolter was mentally impaired. Albert Diggory, currently training under Mr. Farwell, was a couple of weeks away from getting his certification. He was the second youngest employee at the Auror's office, only two years older than Septimus. Before Septimus' unexpected promotion, he had been set to break the record for quickest completion of Auror training.

To call things between Septimus and Diggory awkward was an understatement. Diggory understood that the early certification business hadn't been Septimus’ decision (or at least he said he did), but it didn't change that Septimus had taken Diggory's place in the Auror history books. Septimus was actually still taking classes from Diggory at the Auror Training Academy even though he technically out-ranked him now now.

Honestly, the only people who were happy about Septimus making Auror so quickly were the other Weasleys. And they were only happy because Septimus hadn't really explained the circumstances of his promotion.

"We heard you got Riddle to come by," said Mr. Farwell after a curt nod in Septimus' direction. "Why bring him to Scrimgeour?" Mr. Farwell's thin eyebrows were furrowed, accentuating the deep frown lines in his forehead.

"Mr. Scrimgeour wants to hire him as a Muggle Affairs Consultant," answered Septimus.

"What?" asked Diggory, his mouth slightly open in confusion.

Mr. Scrimgeour hadn't ordered him to keep it a secret so he figured he could tell Mr. Farwell and Diggory. Septimus didn't want everyone to think he was keeping case information to himself. It would only exacerbate the rumors that he was a rank climber and nothing else. He was even going to explain that Professor Dumbledore asked that Riddle not be prosecuted, but Mr. Scrimgeour walked out of his office with Riddle in tow before Septimus could start responding.

Mr. Scrimgeour glanced around the room and nodded at Mr. Farwell. Septimus noticed Riddle's eyes widening slightly when he saw Diggory. Did Riddle recognize Diggory? Or was he just surprised because Diggory was so handsome?

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Scrimgeour when no one else spoke. "Mr. Riddle has agreed to work for us as Muggle Affairs Consultant. He has information about the Grindelwald case. Mr. Weasley, he'll be reporting to you for now."

Further instructions and questions were cut short by a young messenger, probably straight out of Hogwarts if the baby fat on his cheeks was anything to go by, burst into the office.

"There's been another raid!" the young man exclaimed. "We just got word from the Obliviators. Much closer to the center of London this time!"

All of them ended up at Muggle factory, which Riddle just happened to know because it was located close to a fishery by the Thames he used to frequent with Annie Moreau. Wizards very rarely risked treks to the center of Muggle cities, which meant that Aurors rarely had reason wander into them. Without Riddle guiding them through wide streets made narrow by crowds of Muggles bustling from place to place, the area would have overwhelmed Septimus, Mr. Farwell, and Diggory.

Merlin’s hell, it overwhelmed them anyway, with all its unnatural scents and scowling people walking past each other without bumping into each other. Septimus was practically a drunken bull, brushing past people who ignored his nervous apologies or shot him annoyed glares. And all the noise, a synchronous cacophony that Septimus couldn’t understand.

Mr. Farwell and Diggory were faring much better. If Mr. Farwell was unused to being around so many Muggles, he was hiding it very well. Diggory looked a little more disoriented next to Septimus, but he was also keeping up without much trouble.

They got to the factory relatively quickly. Riddle stopped in front of a dirty but sturdy looking three floor building and pointed towards it with his right hand. Mr. Farwell walked forward and waved to a man standing at the entrance. Since he was wearing Muggle clothes, Septimus bet he was an Obliviator.

"Do you know what they make here?" Diggory asked Riddle.

"No," answered Riddle. "We never bought anything from here."

When Mr. Farwell was done talking to the Obliviator, he motioned the three of them forward. The Obliviator led them through the door and walked them past a bunch of rooms that looked like offices. Septimus counted several Muggles under magical trances, thankfully unharmed. After flashing on a memory of the bloody corpse at the last raid, he hoped that whatever had happened here hadn't been so violent.

"We're lucky these guys weren't here just to terrorize Muggles," the Obliviator was saying as they walked through the building’s beige hallways. The walls were covered with bulletin boards littered with papers. They announced everything from worker schedules to weekday menus for what Septimus assumed where nearby diners. "This place is always crowded and explosions aren't uncommon so the Muggles outside don't suspect anything strange. There're only seventeen we have to Obliviate."

There were Muggles remaining in the offices but they were all staring fixedly and vacantly while a group of wizards stormed through their building. Which Obliviator was powerful enough to trap an entire Muggle factory under a magical trance? And for how long?

"How many attackers?" asked Mr. Farwell.

"We caught three," the Obliviator answered. "We don't know if any got away."

"These guys are actually coherent?" asked Septimus. He was afraid that most of the victim-attackers seemed relatively sane until someone said something to trigger them.

"Who's this?" the Obliviator asked Mr. Farwell.

Mr. Farwell chuckled. "Our newest Auror," he answered as they turned a corner.

Septimus held back a wince and avoided Diggory's gaze.

"You prats get younger every year," the Obliviator mumbled with a smile, stopping in front of a heavy looking set of double doors with opaque glass on the upper halves. "As far as we can tell, these guys are regular criminals. They came to rob this factory."

"You mean their Muggle money?" asked Diggory.

"No," said the Obliviator. "They came to steal the product. And it's not food or anything similar."

"What do they make here?" asked Mr. Farwell.

"Dynamite," answered Riddle unexpectedly.

Everyone looked at him blankly, the Obliviator included. Septimus didn't know what "dynamite" was either.

"There were signs on the way here," Riddle tried to clarify. "On the walls."

"What's dynamite?" asked Septimus. _He_ wasn't ashamed to admit what he didn't know what it was.

"Muggle explosives," said Riddle, tilting his head a little. "They blow things up."

"Yes, we know _explosives_ ," said Mr. Farwell, his frown lines more visible than Septimus had ever seen them. "Thank you."

"Who's _this_ one?" asked the Obliviator.

"Our new Muggle Affairs Consultant," Mr. Farwell responded without inflection.

The Obliviator frowned. Septimus had failed to inform Riddle that most people were not amused by Ministry employees with vague job descriptions and bloated salaries. Most of the time, the positions were filled by the children of rich, Pureblood families. In his defense, Septimus had been trying to convince him to take the job so warning him about his coworkers' inevitable hostility would have been rather counterproductive.

"Why would wizards want Muggle explosives?" asked Diggory.

Riddle shrugged. "Ask them.”

The Obliviator looked Riddle up and down and pushed open the double doors. Inside the room, there were several stations dominated by complicated looking Muggle machines. Septimus tried and failed to make sense of the metal tubes and chains. There was a group of about fifteen entranced Muggles huddled at one of the corners near the door. The three attackers were at the opposite corner, also entranced. They were restrained by magical chains and flanked by two Obliviators.

"We'll go question them," said Mr. Farwell, gesturing for Diggory to follow him. "Weasley, take our new consultant around. See if he notices anything."

Septimus nodded and tried not to be upset that they didn't even ask if he had any questions for the attackers. It'd be great if he could observe them to see if they psychologically impaired. Septimus was not convinced this particular attack was related to the previous ones since he Obliviator had said that the attackers weren't interested in terrorizing the Muggles.

"I thought you were an Auror trainee," he heard Riddle say.

"I was promoted a little suddenly," said Septimus. "Come on, I think that machine over there's been damaged." He started walking to the altered machine towards the end of the room, then frowned when Riddle didn’t immediately follow along.

"I know what the dynamite does," said Riddle. "Not how it's made. This just looks like it was damaged by magic."

"Reductor Curse?" Septimus wondered out loud.

It didn't look like it'd been blasted to pieces, but he didn't know what it was normally looked like at all. Septimus tried to compare it to one of the undamaged machines but all he could confirm was that it looked different. For all he knew, it was supposed to look different. Septimus didn’t even know if there were any specific charms of jinxes that would affect Muggle machinery. This whole stupid case was making him wish he'd taken Muggle Studies.

"No, that probably would have set off a bigger explosion," said Riddle while he read the writing to the side of the machine. "Wait, nitrate and toluene? Dynamite’s made of nitroglycerin at least back—" he stopped talking suddenly.

"I thought you said you didn’t know how this stuff’s made," said Septimus.

Riddle opened his mouth but said nothing. "It's common knowledge," he tried after a few seconds.

Septimus didn't think so. He bet if he asked any Muggle outside this factory about nitro—whatever Riddle had said, they wouldn't know what it was.

"So what's it used for?"

"Mining and demolition," answered Riddle. He shrugged. "And terrorism I suppose."

"How strong is it?"

"I'm no expert," said Riddle, then immediately frowned. "But a small quantity of dynamite at the right spot could bring down a building." He scratched his forehead over a strange zigzag scar and then fiddled with his glasses. "We should wake one of the Muggles and ask what the stuff with the toluene is for. Or show the stuff to a Potion master. Maybe it's an ingredient in a potion?"

"They're not magical," Septimus pointed out. "How could they be potion ingredients?"

"Is cat hair magical?" Riddle asked in the same tone of voice he used when he felt the need to define the word 'explosives'. "Bat blood? Daisies?"

Septimus nodded but he still rolled his eyes before walking towards the Obliviators.

Riddle had a point. He didn't like dealing with hysterical Muggles, but Obliviators waited to wipe their memories until after Aurors were done investigating the scene for a reason. Knowing what exactly the attackers had been looking for was important. Hopefully, Mr. Farwell and Diggory had gotten the answers they needed from the attackers themselves so terrorizing the Muggles further would be unnecessary.

Diggory was still talking to one of the Obliviators when they made it to the front of the room but Mr. Farwell walked towards them. "They weren't after the dynamite," he said to Riddle. "They want something called 'TNT'."

Riddle lifted his head and bit his lower lip. "Trinitrotoluene!" he said suddenly. "It's a weaker explosive, bet you can use it to set off dynamite from safe distances."

Septimus really doubted that was 'common knowledge' among Muggles. Mr. Farwell looked a little surprised that Riddle could identify the substance as well.

"Did they say what they wanted it?" Riddle asked.

"To rob Gringotts," said Mr. Farwell. And then sighed, rolled his eyes, and threw up his hands all at the same time. "There're no injuries, so the Obliviators didn't call any Healers. Diggory’s instructing them to. The attackers were carrying the coins."

He tossed one of them to Septimus. The Deathly Hallows filled him with such dread lately.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore," said Riddle suddenly.

"Why?" asked Mr. Farwell.

"Because . . ." Riddle trailed off, shrugged, and tried to walk towards the attackers.

"No," said Mr. Farwell, standing in front of him. "You work for us now. If you know something, you tell us. Not Professor Dumbledore."

Riddle looked like he was going to argue but he just glanced at the floor and sighed. "Do you know what the symbol on the coins means?"

"It's the symbol of the Deathly Hallows," Diggory answered from behind Mr. Farwell. "The Healers are on their way," he said to his mentor.

Mr. Farwell nodded to Diggory and then focused on Riddle again. "What about the symbol?"

"Grindelwald’s after the Hallows," said Riddle. "He talked to Rosalind Potter and she told him that a lot of Pureblood families in England have heirlooms they claim are the Hallows. Some of them might be kept at Gringotts. I have to look at the list she sent me again."

"You know the Potters?" asked Diggory.

Riddle shook his head. "I only met Rosalind once. Maybe Grindelwald’s trying to break into Gringotts, but if he is, why isn't he being more subtle?"

"Wait, you think Grindelwald wants to use Muggle explosives to break into Gringotts?" asked Septimus. He didn't have any prejudices against Muggles, but he really didn't think they'd somehow stumbled upon the weapon needed to _break into Gringotts_.

"No, I think he might be trying to use these thieves to create a distraction so he can break into Gringotts," said Riddle. "Maybe." He shook his head and sighed again. "We should tell Dumbledore."

"Wait!" said Mr. Farwell, holding up his hands. "You think this madman is doing all this because he wants some old heirlooms?"

"My grandmother thinks they're real," interjected Diggory. "The Hallows, I mean. She thinks they're real and that whoever owns all three will be the most powerful witch or wizard alive."

"So you think Grindelwald believes it too?" asked Mr. Farwell, his voice growing more skeptical and annoyed. "We're dealing with all this nonsense because some crackpot is chasing after an old wives' tale?"

"Not _all_ of this," said Riddle. "The raids will cause fear and chaos. He wants to overturn the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and he'll need followers for that. It's easier to get followers if everyone's afraid.” Riddle looked down and his eyes became unfocused when he talked about fear and followers. He looked up suddenly, like he realized he was starting to talk mostly to himself. "But yes, he wants the Hallows too," he finished in a firmer voice. "But how are Muggle explosives going to help him break into Gringotts?" asked Diggory.

Septimus was about to ask the same question.

Riddle opened his mouth but Mr. Farwell answered before he could. "Because Gringotts has plenty of wards against magic of all kinds," he started in an exasperated tone. "Curses, jinxes, charms, spells, potions . . . they all bounce off Gringotts' walls. It'd take an army of wizards to bring it down. But it has no specific wards against Muggle attacks. Why would they? Muggles don't even know Gringotts exists."

"Wouldn't an explosion just attract Aurors and Healers though?" asked Septimus. The Muggle explosives might actually breach Gringotts' outer walls, but it still wouldn't help anyone get to the actual vaults.

"Grindelwald would use the distraction to get in undetected," explained Riddle. "It'd make getting to the right vaults much easier."

"We have to warn the Goblins," said Mr. Farwell. He turned to Diggory. "Wait here and get the Healers' report. I need to go to the Goblin Liaison Office." He turned to Riddle. "You need to come with me and explain about these Muggle bombs."

"I have to talk to Dumbledore," insisted Riddle.

"You can talk to him after you've finished your Ministry work," Mr. Farwell told him.

Riddle looked like he was going to argue but then he just sighed and threw his hands in defeat.

"Weasley," said Mr. Farwell without even turning to look at him. His face was focused on Riddle, who was scowling at the floor. "Stay here and assist Diggory."

Mr. Farwell grabbed Riddle by the shoulder before Disapparating out of the factory.

Septimus looked at Diggory and shrugged. "Can I talk to the attackers?" he asked. Maybe if he showed that he was willing to follow Diggory's lead despite his promotion the awkwardness would dissipate.

Diggory nodded and walked towards the attackers without a word. Septimus sighed dejectedly and followed him.

* * *

Albus was exceedingly thankful that Ms. Potter responded to his owl so promptly. One more night of waiting and Albus would’ve started considering examining Harry’s mind personally, ethics be damned.

Albus looked over at the boy. He was sitting on another armchair with shoulders hunched, carefully avoiding Albus' gaze. His first day working for the Ministry must not have gone well.

The House-elf had said Ms. Potter was still entertaining another guest at her private library. Albus admitted he wasn't used to being kept waiting. Ms. Potter's other guest must be quite an intriguing person. He looked over at Harry again. He seemed enthralled by the drawing room's floor.

"Harry," Albus called gently.

"Something's wrong with me," said without looking away from the same spot on the floor. "I don't know if I feel like me anymore. I can't even tell Ron and the Weasley Auror apart in my head. They don't even look that much alike. It's like everything's getting blurry."

Albus tried to think of an appropriate response. Logically, this new development could be used as supporting evidence for Albus' theory that Harry's mind had been extensively altered by Gellert.

But no, it was all too neatly coincidental. Harry started noticing his own inconsistencies just when Albus tried to examine him for extensive mental manipulation? It all fell into place too easily.

"But at the same time other things are as clear as water," continues Harry. "Feels like I've always known them but I don't know where I learned them."

"Can you give me an example?" asked Albus. He should take advantage of Harry's sudden openness. There would be time to comfort him later.

Harry looked up and met his gaze. "Did you know that trinitrotoluene is a weak explosive because the nitrates around the benzene ring can delocalize any charges throughout the whole molecule?"

"I must admit I didn't," answered Albus. He had no idea what Harry had just said at all.

"I shouldn't know what half those words even mean," said Harry. "I don't know where I learned that or when. But I do know it. Just like I know that molecules with atoms that have formal charges exist as resonance hybrids made up of different contributing structures, assuming that the arrangement of valence electrons can be moved around the valence shell and—" he stopped abruptly and looked at the floor again.

"Does your head hurt?" asked Albus while hiding some rather inappropriate amusement.

"No," said Harry. "I'm not dizzy either. That was chemistry by the way, but the whole thing is based on theories about the behavior of sub-atomic particles. Have sub-atomic particles been discovered yet?" He looked at Albus and shrugged. "I still suck at History. It's comforting in a way."

"What's the most difficult aspect of cross-species Human Tranfiguration?" asked Albus. He knew very little about the Muggle sciences, so he could not tell if Harry was speaking nonsense or not.

"Keeping track of the brain's connection to the rest of the body," Harry answered tiredly. "Human brain units are entirely different from every other animal. And there's a higher density of them, even if you want to Transfigure into an animal with a bigger brain. You have to fuse a lot of human brain units together before actually transfiguring them. The correct way to stream the magic is also difficult because it all needs to be done before the Transfiguration even starts." He scratched his forehead lightly and frowned. "Did I learn that at Hogwarts?"

"You would have learned the theory your seventh year," answered Albus. He would have also learned it at any other magic school. He hadn't attended any though. Albus had asked Durmstrang and Beauxbatons' administrations if they'd ever had Harry as a student.

"I couldn't do my seventh year at Hogwarts," said Harry. "I'm pretty sure the 'brain units' are actually neurons, by the way."

"How did you discover this . . . knowledge?" asked Albus.

"Grindelwald had some Muggleborns rob a Muggle explosive factory," said Harry. "I read the compound names and I just . . . understood what they were. And then, I started thinking about it, asking myself all these questions about . . . everything I could think of and I just . . . knew the answers."

It was most certainly not something Albus anticipated. Extensive alteration by Legilimency should cause disorientation, emotional imbalances, and damaged memories, but it wouldn't cause a person to automatically learn an academic subject. Could Gellert have used Harry to experiment with a Pensieve? Such a project would be possible as long as a wizard was willing to erode another person's mind. It would explain Harry's sudden knowledge of advanced Human Transfiguration, but not his babblings about Muggle sciences.

Should Albus read Muggles books about Chemistry to see if Harry had been making any sense before? Albus frowned at the thought.

"The Deathly Hallows did this to me," said Harry. "It's the only explanation."

Albus was going to try and gently explain that the Hallows were only a legend again but they were interrupted by the Potter House-elf. Her big eyes were filling with tears and she was wringing her hands together.

In a dramatic voice filled with anguish, she cried "Mistress Rosalind has been kidnapped!"


	12. Chapter 12

Harry tried to be as kind and comforting as possible, which turned out not to be enough to keep Hattie from fainting in the middle of a despairing sob. He had lifted her into one of the comfortable armchairs before following Dumbledore out of the drawing room, deciding at the last moment not to cover her with his outer robes. It might just count as “giving her clothes” and no matter how great freedom sounded to Harry, he couldn’t forget how miserable Winky had been after being freed.

Out of curiosity, he asked himself if blanketing Hattie with his outer robes would free her or not.

Possibly, a part of him knew almost instantly. He was technically a Potter too, and if Hattie belonged to the whole family and not just Ms. Potter, then he could free her.

Harry tried to put the matter out of his mind and followed Dumbledore through the hallways of the Potter manor. The many family portraits hanging on the walls followed them with their eyes, some with disapproving gazes and others trying to engage Dumbledore in conversation. They were on their way to the Potter library to check for any clues about Ms. Potter's kidnapping.

"Where's the rest of the family?" asked Harry when they reached the stairs to a third floor. From the outside, the place appeared to be two stories tall.

"Helena and Archibald Potter are taking a trip around the world," answered Dumbledore as they reached the last few steps. He made a left turn towards a hallway brimming with portraits of various Potters from different time periods and varying ages. The largest painting featured a stout woman with a thick braid falling over her shoulder glared at a wailing baby perched on her left arm. Four other children played around her skirts.

"Their youngest son is currently attending Hogwarts,” continued Dumbledore. “Rosalind has been staying here alone."

Harry processed this information and tried to ignore the portrait of a wizard who looked remarkably similar to his father hanging on the left wall.

They finally entered a large room filled wall-to-wall with books and occupied by several tall bookcases. Towards the right side, the last bookcase had been toppled over. Volumes of different sizes and colors were scattered all over the floor, some with singed edges. He pulled out his wand in case there were any attackers left in the room, but Dumbledore simply walked towards the disarray with a focused look on his face.

"It wasn't Gellert himself," said Dumbledore after making some gestures with his wand while mumbling incantations in a voice too low for Harry to hear.

But, to his surprise, he immediately recognized the wand gestures as part of a complex tracking charm used to identify and follow a specific witch or wizard's magic. He knew he could do it as well, but he didn't know where he'd learned it.

Harry shut his eyes and bowed his head, searching desperately for some pain or discomfort to signal that there was something wrong.

Everything felt fine. Nothing hurt. The only thing amiss was an uncomfortable clench seizing his stomach. He shook his head and let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

There'd be plenty of time to worry about his inexplicable knowledge later, after finding Rosalind Potter.

Since they were in a magical household, Dumbledore’s tracking charm would have to wade through layer upon layer of spells before finding Ms. Potter’s, even if she had cast anything before being abducted. Harry searched the room for any clues about where she’d been taken, or who had taken her.

Instead of focusing on the shelf that had been knocked down, Harry tried to look for the desk or armchair Ms. Potter used to read in case she’d been discussing any particular book with her visitor. The library had been enchanted to be bigger than it looked so it took a while to reach the end of the bookcases, where a circular table dominated the space under a large, clear window. Two armchairs were situated so that any sunlight assisted any potential readers.

There were no signs of a struggle in the area but Harry’s interest was piqued anyway. The largest text was _The Origins of Myths in the Wizarding World_. Right beside was a smaller book bound with red leather. The title claimed it was a journal from the ancient wizard Reynaud, which Harry could read even though it was in goddamned French.

While he tried not to think too much about how many other languages he might know, a slim book bound with black leather caught his eye. Unlike the rest of the volumes scattered on the table, it had no title.

Harry picked up, shook off a strange shiver that probably ought to have sent him scurrying back to Dumbledore, and opened it. There was only one nearly blank page after the cover, with no information about the book's author. Instead, the words We Are Not For You were written at the center of the otherwise empty page in gold ink.

Harry frowned and flipped to the next page. Without preamble, the book launched into the strangest passage Harry had ever read:

_By isolating the owner's life essence, the Stone will do much more than prevent death or even serve as a conduit to bring others to life. Once the owner's consciousness has been severed from its mundane links to the universe, they can travel along space as easily as the average wizard Apparates. But, be aware, the human soul was not designed to survive without connections. An excess of trips across the continuum will erode the mind with information until naught is left but individual datum without awareness or purpose._

Senseless as it was, the passage hit a nerve within Harry. He had recently traveled across time and he found his mind filled with strange information. Most of it served him little purpose too. For example, he knew that a person couldn't know the position of a particle while knowing its future momentum.

So what? What did it have to do with anything? Why did he know it? Who cared if magic existed due to sentient beings' connection to the universe's lifeless energy core? Who had explained the intricacies of House-elf binding contracts to him? He didn't just think he could free Hattie, he knew could. Did Hermione ever explain the subtleties of House-elf enslavement to him? It hardly mattered either way since he’d never payed much attention to her rants about S. P. E. W.

With a frown, Harry turned the page over.

_01123581321345589144—_

Fibonacci's sequence, found in patterns all over nature and one of the earliest sequences studied in Arithmancy. It was used to create the number charts that helped predict the physical growth patterns of most individual organisms.

Harry snapped the book shut in disgust. He didn't want to be constantly reminded of all the subjects he'd inexplicably become proficient in sometime in the last five months.

He was halfway to Dumbledore when he abruptly turned around and went back for the strange book. He felt that it might be useful to him later, though he was afraid to examine why he thought so. His own mind was scaring him but he had the small book secure in his pocket when he went back to look for Dumbledore. Hopefully, Ms. Potter wouldn't notice one seemingly nonsensical book missing from her collection.

Harry supposed it was strange that he was stealing and not even feeling slightly guilty about it but he dismissed the thought. There were enough things to be confused and apprehensive about without trying to coax himself into feeling remorse over taking a dumb book from a woman who’d probably never had to struggle for a single thing in her entire sheltered life.

Dumbledore was just finishing his tracking charm when Harry got back to the front of the library. His wand was losing a pale glow when Harry cleared his throat to get Dumbledore's attention.

"I'm detecting a fairly recent magical signature without any significant ties to the household," said Dumbledore, giving no indication that he was startled by Harry's gesture. "It's faint, the person it belongs to cast one—maybe two—spells here. Both were violent." Dumbledore was examining the books that had fallen from the shelf as he spoke. "Then the person Apparated, taking Ms. Potter along via Side-Along Apparition."

Harry was going to ask if he couldn't find out where they had Disapparated to, but the answer bloomed in his mind before he could start to verbalize the question. Apparition worked by Untransfiguring and then Conjuring, so it was too difficult to track someone who had broken themselves down to the simplest unit of existence, especially if their signature was faint and unfamiliar. Briefly, Harry found himself wondering if the "simplest unit of existence" the theory was talking about was an atom or a quark and had to hold back a hysterical snort.

"These books don't appear to be organized by subject," Dumbledore continued while looking through the piles of books on the floor. "Either way, it would be hard to say if they were arguing about these specifically or if they just happened to have their argument at this location." Dumbledore started to straighten when he suddenly bent back down.

Harry followed his gaze, but saw nothing strange among the books piled on the floor. "What is it?"

Dumbledore grabbed one of the books and looked through the pages. "This book's bound in a format I've never seen before," he answered. "The pages are not made of parchment . . . This is Muggle paper."

"Let me see," said Harry, extending a hand.

Dumbledore passed him a copy of _The Big Four_ by Agatha Christie. The book's binding was different than any books' Harry had read in the Wizarding World. The threads keeping the pages together was obvious. Books published by wizards were bound by charms, not glue or threads. Harry wondered why he'd never noticed before. He glanced at Dumbledore standing next to him, peering at the book from behind his half-moon spectacles.

Even more important, why would a magic household own one lone copy of an Agatha Christie book? Harry supposed that it was possible for them to be fans of the author even though she was a Muggle, but then why have only _one_ of her books? Was this the first book she'd published?

Harry was happy to realize he had no idea if it was. There were _some_ things he still didn’t know. He opened the book to see if anyone had written any identifying information on it. On the first page, above all of Christie's formal dedications, was a small message written in black ink.

_To Mary, my beloved wife and partner of twenty years._

Harry felt the air leave his lungs. "This book belonged to my—" he stopped talking abruptly and shook his head. "To Mary Riddle," he finished, looking at the floor. "That is most curious," said Dumbledore, scratching his chin.

Harry frowned. Why would the Deathly Hallows give him any specific knowledge about the Riddles? _Why?_

"They disappeared," he told Dumbledore. "My—the Riddles." Harry was trying to remember—or maybe reason—something important but there was a wall between himself and his mind. It was like all the random information was keeping him from his own thoughts.

"Harry," he heard Dumbledore say.

Harry realized he'd shut his eyes and was holding his face with his hands. He looked up at Dumbledore quickly.

"I'm fine, I'm not in any pain," Harry quickly reassured him. It was true. He felt a little nauseous but his head didn't hurt.

"We must go to the Riddle manor," answered Dumbledore. "The book you're holding is the only clue we have as to where the kidnapper might have taken Ms. Potter."

"And the Aurors?" asked Harry. He still didn't want anything to do with the Ministry, but he was self-aware enough to know he'd just be in the way in a fight between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

"Hattie," responded Dumbledore. "Can you order her to wait fifteen minutes after we have Disapparated to contact the Ministry?"

He was asking if Harry really was a Potter.

Harry nodded and they both headed for the library's door. The second trip through the hallways of the Potter mansion was much quicker. Hattie was still sleeping in the same armchair Harry had left her on and she immediately started crying when Dumbledore used magic to wake her up.

"Hattie!" he exclaimed, voice harsher than necessary. They had no time for kindness. "Listen carefully. Wait fifteen minutes after Professor Dumbledore and I leave, then contact the Ministry about Rosalind's disappearance."

Momentarily, Hattie looked like she was going to argue but she seemed to choke on her own words. Then her eyes widened and before he could do anything to stop her, Hattie started violently beating her head against the blunt edge of the armchair she'd been lying on.

"Hattie, stop!" Harry _cried_ , grabbing her by the shoulders.

She turned her large, tear-filled eyes to Harry again. "Hattie apologizes for the disrespect, master," she said and promptly burst into tears.

Harry felt a pang of something he couldn't identify when Hattie called him master but resolved to waste no time trying to analyze it. "It's fine," he said. "You didn't know who I was. Now, try to compose yourself and then wait the fifteen minutes after the Professor and I Disapparate. Then contact the Ministry and tell them Rosalind has been abducted, most likely to the Riddle Manor. Understand?"

Hattie nodded and hiccupped.

Harry looked at Dumbledore and straightened up. A few seconds later, they both Apparated at a deserted road near the Riddle mansion. The moon was already high in the sky. Harry pulled out his wand and got ready for a fight.

* * *

When Rosalind woke up, she thanked the stars she was alone. The best part about being a Legilimens, she decided, was that she could wake herself up from a Stunning Spell without aid. Sadly, she couldn't determine how long she'd been stunned. There was no way to know if Hattie had noticed her absence and alerted the Ministry already.

There were magically enforced chains keeping her arms and legs immobile, though someone had been courteous enough to arrange her on a bed. Someone had been courteous enough not to trap in a Full Body Bind Curse so at least her abductors were polite.

Rosalind listened for Ms. Lambert and struggled against her bonds when she heard nothing around her. Of course, the chains didn’t budge but Rosalind had to try at least once. She slowly opened her eyes, somehow expecting to see Ms. Lambert towering over her.

Thankfully, she was alone.

She could see that she'd been put in an innocuous looking room, though it was dark enough that her red robes looked like they were brown. Rosalind strained her eyes to try and see if she recognized anything. She was in a spacious, and the walls seemed to be painted brown. The bed she was laying on was relatively large, and there was a small bookcase to her right completely stocked with books. To her left, there was a small desk with a small vase on top of it. The flowers inside it were dead.

Briefly, she wondered if Ms. Lambert had thought to find and kill Hattie after she'd been subdued. Rosalind felt a few tears rolling down her cheeks before she managed to get a hold of herself. She looked around the room more carefully and spotted an oval-shaped portrait hanging in the near the room's exit. It was hard to tell from the bed, but Rosalind thought the images in the portrait were immobile. She wouldn't have considered the possibility that she was in a Muggle household but what other kind of family would own portraits with frozen images?

Ms. Lambert had been showing her a Muggle book before their altercation. It was possible that she was a Muggleborn and that Rosalind was now at the home of her Muggle family.

The more she considered Ms. Lambert, the more Rosalind realized that she knew nothing important about her. The little things Ms. Lambert had shared had probably been lies. Was she really determined to instill a healthy respect for history among her students? Did she really love teaching? Was she truly French? Was her name truly Astrid Lambert?

She’d Ms. Lambert no other questions. The truth was that she'd ignored her uneasy feeling about the strange woman because of all the wonderful books she'd been sharing with Rosalind. She'd been the one to fill most of their lengthy three meeting with conversation. At the time, Rosalind had told herself that she was alright with being the only one talking because Ms. Lambert obviously preferred to listen. And what did it matter that Ms. Lambert had visited on three different occasions over a span of four days? It was just evidence that she was serious about her desire to become a more proficient teacher.

She'd only been ignoring her instincts because of the books. The second visit, Ms. Lambert had brought an authentic copy of one of the earliest collections of French fables for Rosalind to examine. The Reynard volume had been so old that it had stories from the time when wizards and witches had not been segregated from Muggles. Today, Ms. Lambert had brought an old diary written by a witch who'd lived through the worst of the Black Plague. She'd also brought Rosalind an interesting modern fiction book that was popular among Muggles.

In retrospect, Rosalind really should not have ignored Ms. Lambert's constant questions about old books. She said very little, but all her questions and remarks led to a conversation about rare volumes. Rosalind had told herself that it wasn't strange, and that Ms. Lambert only wanted to keep their visits professional.

Despite all her misgivings, Rosalind had been surprised when Ms. Lambert had suddenly shifted from rude to belligerent.

"You're not even making a half-hearted attempt at sharing your rare volumes with me," she'd said suddenly while Rosalind looked through the Muggle book.

Rosalind had looked up quickly, with half-formed placating words ready but her mouth had hung open when she'd seen the angry look on Ms. Lambert's face. It was the first time Rosalind had seen her express any kind of emotion. She'd stumbled out of her armchair, book still on her hand just as Ms. Lambert pulled out her wand.

Ms. Lambert had started blasting Stunning Spells her way before Rosalind even pulled out her wand. By some miracle, she managed to dodge two of them before she managed to cast a Shielding Charm and tried to rush out of the library to send Hattie for help.

Looking back on it, she couldn't help but wonder if Ms. Lambert had simply been trying to scare her. Rosalind shook her head. It was unlikely. The dueling lessons she'd taken during her twenties must have been of some use. She'd even managed to deflect three other curses Ms. Lambert had launched her way. Of course, they hadn’t helped for long against an accomplished criminal so Rosalind eventually resorted to Legilimency.

The first feeling Rosalind had encountered was rage. There had been no particular memories at the forefront of Ms. Lambert's mind, only overwhelming anger and despair. Most of it hadn't even been directed at specifically at Rosalind. After she'd gotten over her initial shock, Rosalind had attempted to instill a feeling of extreme drowsiness but she had been overwhelmed by one of Ms. Lambert's memories.

She'd seen a young girl she recognized as Ms. Lambert's only daughter playing near what she'd known was really shallow stream. Rosalind had been overwhelmed by happiness overshadowed by extreme grief. Instantly, the image morphed to a picture of several middle-aged men throwing rocks at the young girl while Ms. Lambert tried to stand up despite the two men holding her down. Rosalind had been overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness, shame, and rage before everything went black.

Then she'd woken up tied up in a Muggle bedroom.

Rosalind shifted on the bed and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible.

Ms. Lambert's emotions had been too much for her even-tempered soul to handle. Rosalind had led a sheltered life. Her nature was calm and patient. She'd never experienced the turmoil she'd felt while witnessing Ms. Lambert's memories. Ms. Lambert had probably seen her stand on the same spot for a few seconds, felt her unceremoniously leafing through her memories, and finally stunned her.

It was admittedly embarrassing. Or, at least, it would be if she allowed herself to dwell on it.

Instead Rosalind tried to formulate some kind of escape plan. Trying to duel her way out would be probably end badly for her. She could only try to keep her captors talking when they came to see her and hope that Professor Dumbledore found her soon. Hopefully, if anyone came to see her, it wouldn't be Ms. Lambert. Rosalind had been unable to engage her in conversation when even she'd been trying to appear harmless.

She heard steps coming from outside the door and instantly, her heart started beating like a drum. Rosalind tried to sit up and muster some dignity just as Mr. Adalhard walked through the door.

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Mr. Adal—Grindelwald smiled and used his wand to light several candles arranged around the room. The light hit Grindelwald’s robes (golden, almost as bright and beautiful as the Sun in the summer). Rosalind had to stifle an urge to rub her eyes, though she was in no actual physical discomfort.

His face was so perfectly symmetrical it made Rosalind a little queasy. The first time he’d visited, there’d been a small mole just to the left of his cheek that Rosalind hadn’t realized set her at ease.

"What do you want?" she asked when he looked at her and didn't say anything.

Grindelwald sighed and waved his wand. Rosalind felt the chains holding her wrists and ankles together vanish. She quickly sat on the edge of the bed and rearranged her robes.

"This is quite awkward," Grindelwald said with a shrug. "I blame myself really. Astrid is excellent at intimidation and torture, but she has never excelled at social situations. Unfortunately, all my other intelligent underlings are currently engaged in very important assignments."

"What do you want?" Rosalind asked again.

Grindelwald graced her with a paternal smile.

It was somewhat disconcerting to see a man who looked a few years older than her brother flash such an expression at her.

"I want the Grimoire," he said.

"What Grimoire?"

"Rosalind, I know I look like I'm barely past twenty," Grindelwald started. "But I'm _really_ not. You know what I'm referring to."

She was still desperately trying to think of an appropriate answer when she heard an explosion coming from somewhere below her.

* * *

He supposed a portion of the blame laid at his own feet. Gellert had known Astrid wasn't suited for subtle manipulations, but all his other underlings were operating at key locations throughout Europe.

Still, had it really been that unreasonable to expect Astrid to be able to cheat a trusting, sheltered, and lonely English girl?

Evidently, yes.

With a smirk at Rosalind’s anxious glances between him and the door, Gellert stunned her and headed downstairs, excited to be seeing Albus again despite the circumstances. Thanks to the circumstances maybe. Albus was always at his best when he was angry.

He stalked through the muddy brown hallways of the Riddle mansion, growing more irritated the more explosions he heard. Astrid better hope that the intruders killed her. At the very least, it would save her from Gellert's increasingly dark mood. Hopefully, the Muggle he had paralyzed in the basement wouldn't die of fright because then he’d have to explain his disappearance to the rest of the town’s Muggles.

Albus was in the expansive living room, in the middle of a rather one-sided duel with Astrid. The instant Albus noticed his presence, he flicked his wand and sent a powerful stream of red magic Astrid's way. It connected with her stomach and sent her stumbling backwards, surprisingly gently considering the considerable flare of Albus' power. Astrid stood her ground for a few seconds, which Gellert had to admit was quite impressive, and then fell down to her side.

Albus, wand already lowered, turned towards the staircase and looked upwards. Gellert met his gaze, heart pounding, and offered him a sheepish smile. Albus' face remained expressionless and Gellert suppressed the desire to blast him with a childish jinx to get a reaction out of him.

After a few moments of charged silence, Gellert Apparated downstairs right behind the spot where Astrid was lying on the floor. He kept his eyes on Albus, half-smile still in place, and bent down to check Astrid's pulse. Predictably, she was alive. Gellert didn't really care one way or the other, but it would confuse Albus to see him act like he was concerned with the survival of his minions.

"Gellert, she's only stunned," Albus said in a carefully expressionless voice.

Gellert suppressed the triumphant smirk threatening to take over his face. He'd gotten Albus to speak first. He straightened without removing his gaze from Albus and opened his mouth to deliver a witty retort.

Unfortunately, he was rudely interrupted. " _This_ is Grindelwald?" a voice filled with derision said from behind Albus.

Gellert’s eyes narrowed as he looked behind Albus for the voice's owner. It was Riddle. The boy's mouth was hanging slightly open in confusion and he was gripping his wand but not aiming it at anything in particular.

Finally, a chance to force the insufferable brat to reveal his true power, though Gellert wished he could have a reunion with Albus unmolested.

"In a way," said Albus with a small eye roll and aimed his wand at Gellert. "For Merlin's sake, you're older than me," he told Gellert.

"But you seem to prefer the young," retorted Gellert with a small smirk, gesturing to Riddle. A silly accusation, of course, but one that would irritate Albus nonetheless.

"Really, Gellert?" Albus asked launched a Shielding Charm nonverbally at Riddle. "And who exactly are you trying to attract, looking like a boy barely past schooling?"

"Wait, what?" asked Riddle, looking between them with a frown on his face.

"Harry, find Ms. Potter," Albus said, ignoring his question.

Gellert watched Riddle frown, shake his head, and then run towards the stairs. He launched a Full Body-Bind Curse his way, but Albus Apparated in front of him and deflected it. Riddle stopped and turned to face him, a comical look of rage on his face.

"I must assume Ms. Potter's kidnapping was not part of today's agenda," said Albus, poised to deflect any other attacks from Gellert.

Gellert didn't answer and wrapped himself in the strongest Disillusionment Charm he could manage, masking his presence completely. Even Albus would not be able to sense him until he cast another spell.

"Where'd he go?" asked Riddle, his breath coming out in short puffs.

Strangely, Gellert didn't think his apparent agitation was due to fear. He watched as Riddle sucked in a deep breath, grabbed some of his hair with his left hand, pulled at it, and frowned.

"Harry?" asked Albus, concern filling his voice.

Gellert took advantage of his momentary distraction and launched a powerful stream of raw magic Riddle's way, enough to blast through Albus' Shielding Charm and probably kill Riddle. Either way, it would be enough to earn the Elder Wand's loyalty again.

Unfortunately, Albus was quick enough to Apparate between Riddle and Gellert and force the attack back to where it came from.

Gellert was able to roll to the side easily, once again hidden within his Disillusionment Charm. Albus' attack hit one of the walls in the Riddle manor, blasting through it ruthlessly. The explosion had probably been seen all the way from the village.

Gellert smiled. The Muggles would come soon and serve as protect him from Albus' attack way more proficiently than any Shielding Charm he could cast.

His amusement was short lived.

Suddenly, Gellert felt Riddle Apparating in the kitchen. The place where he'd put the Elder Wand.

Forgetting about his Disillusionment Charm, Gellert Apparated at the kitchen as well, ignoring Albus at his heel. The sentimental fool wouldn’t kill him.

By the time he reached Riddle, the bastard was opening the drawer with the Elder Wand. Gellert casted a Reductor Curse at him, which Albus absorbed into his own wand.

Cursing under his breath, Gellert prepared to try and hit Riddle again. He aimed his wand but Riddle had already gotten what he was after.

The boy’s face was dominated by a hysterical smirk but his breathing was slow and deep. "I win," he said quietly and then let out a little breath before aiming the Elder Wand at Gellert.

* * *

Harry's head still did not hurt. He was afraid and he felt something eating at his will, but there was no pain. The conversation between Dumbledore and Grindelwald was confusing him and making it harder to fight off the thing that was blanketing his thoughts. He wanted to tell Dumbledore that he felt wrong but something—the thing?—held him back. It was for the best. Dumbledore was to fighting Grindelwald, he didn't need more reasons to worry about Harry.

Dumbledore ordered him to go after Ms. Potter. And he should, shouldn't he? It's not like he'd be of much use staying so close to Grindelwald. But why did he care about Ms. Potter? It wasn't important. Ms. Potter was most likely upstairs—that's where Grindelwald had come from, right? Except, Grindelwald looked so young. Like he wasn't much older than Harry. That upset him, but he couldn't say why.

He ran to the stairs, not bothering to look behind him. Grindelwald had no reason to attack him when Dumbledore was right there.

_He does, you imbecile._

And Grindelwald _did_ attack him. Which luckily, Dumbledore blocked. There was also a shield between him and the world, one that Harry did not remember casting. He was angry—or felt anger, it was hard for Harry to say if it was his or not. He hated Grindelwald for attacking. He hated Dumbledore for the shield and everything he was really. But, why hate Dumbledore? That couldn't be right. Harry grabbed his hair and pulled, hoping the pain would clear his head.

It didn't.

He tried to look for Grindelwald—why, exactly, he couldn't tell—but the ridiculously gleaming bastard was nowhere to be seen.

Was he losing time?

Harry asked Dumbledore where Grindelwald had gone, and a blast of magic came his way. Dumbledore blocked it again, and blasted through the wall behind the place the magic came from.

Paradoxically, Harry felt calmer. If Grindelwald wanted to kill him so badly, then the Elder Wand was _theirs._

Wait, whose?

_Ours, you idiot. It's here, go get it!_

The voice was Harry's mind. He wasn’t being possesed. Voldemort had tried to posses him often enough that he knew how it felt by now. He didn't even feel a twinge from his scar so it couldn’t be him.

Where? he asked himself.

_To the east—in the kitchen, hurry!_ his mind answered impatiently. Then it _showed_ him.

Yes, it was obvious. The Elder Wand was loyal to them and Harry could sense as strongly as he sensed the wand on his hand. Harry focused on his mind—it was calm now—and Disapparated to the kitchen. His time was limited. Grindelwald and Dumbledore would be able to follow him easily. They Apparated in the kitchen before he even opened the drawer with that held the Elder Wand.

The power of the Elder wand surged through Harry’s wand arm, then his entire body, the instant Harry touched it. It was disconcerting, but his mind was elated.

Harry looked for Dumbledore. He could show him a Deathly Hallow. Now Dumbledore would have to believe him.

Dimly, he realized Grindelwald tried to curse him again, but someone from behind him absorbed it before Harry could do anything.

_Incompetent fool_! berated his mind and Harry felt a wave of derision directed at himself. His mind was not happy at the idea of being by being rescued by Dumbledore.

Harry ignored himself and aimed the Elder Wand at Grindelwald. Obnoxious or not, Dumbledore would watch his back. He looked at Grindelwald with a large smile.

"I win," he said, attacking Grindelwald with a blast of pure magic. His mind knew how to do it now.

Grindelwald dodged and Harry's mind felt him trying that sophisticated concealment charm again. Harry blasted him with another surge of magic before he could finish the complex Disillusionment Charm.

He laughed. It was so simple now. He could feel the origin of his magic. There was a place behind his awareness—his soul, Harry felt his mind telling him—that connected him to his power. What was the use of incantations or concentration when he had complete control of his magic? His intent was enough. The Elder Wand would know what to do.

"Harry," he heard Dumbledore from behind him and had to restrain the urge to turn around and blast him. The Elder Wand was on his hand; he didn't need Dumbledore anymore.

"I told you they were real," Harry told him without taking his eyes off Grindelwald. "It's ours, that's why he was trying to kill me."

_Kill him._

It was his mind's idea. And it made sense. Grindelwald was evil. He didn't know the details, but there'd been a war and Dumbledore had defeated him. If Grindelwald died right now, he'd be saving thousands of people.

Harry noted Grindelwald's stance. His legs were slightly apart, and he was gripping his wand but not aiming it at anyone. His eyes were fixed on Harry.

_He'll evade a common curse._

It was his mind again. It was right. Harry would probably spend hours trying to blast him, and Grindelwald might still get away.

_There is only one curse he cannot escape._

The Killing Curse? But Harry didn't know it—did he? There were many things he knew that he wasn’t supposed to know.

"Harry," he heard Dumbledore repeating. "You're being possessed by something. Please, put down that wand."

"No, you don't understand!" Harry cried, sparing Dumbledore a brief glance.

Grindelwald took his momentary lapse as an opportunity, and launched a red stream of magic in Harry's direction. Almost instinctively, Harry flicked the Elder Wand and absorbed it. He didn't think he'd ever done that before, but the process was obvious enough now.

He turned back to Grindelwald and blasted some raw magic in his direction.

Grindelwald dodged, and the attack ate through a section of the wall behind him. Grindelwald shifted back to a defensive stance.

"Try not to be a fool for once," Albus said to Grindelwald.

It made Harry laugh. "You see?" he asked Dumbledore. It was important for Harry that Dumbledore understood, though his mind was screaming at him to get a move on and just kill Grindelwald. "He's _evil_ ," Harry insisted. "If we don't kill him now, thousands will die."

"No one should decide another person's time to die," said Dumbledore, a sad look crossing his eyes.

Suddenly, Harry felt his mind fill with rage. Dumbledore always acted like he knew better, as if he somehow understood something about the universe that would always escape him. But Dumbledore was a fool. Letting Grindelwald live to prove some kind of philosophical point about ethics would leave the Wizarding World in shambles. The only person who would benefit would be Dumbledore, who would eventually become the most venerated wizard alive for defeating Grindelwald.

Certain that it was the right decision, Harry allowed his mind to grab a hold of his magic and prepared to cast the Killing Curse. He felt the power gathering within his soul and opened his mouth. The incantation was on the tip of his tongue when he flashed on the many times he'd done this before. Harry watched the images in a detached haze, until he flashed on a memory he'd witnessed in the past.

It was his mother, begging Voldemort not to kill her son before a green blast hit her chest.

Harry Disapparated before his mouth could form the words for the Killing Curse incantation. He Apparated in the Riddle living room and fell to his knees, clutching his stomach and reeling from pain. Before he could even worry about what Grindelwald would do, he vomited blood all over the floor.

He’d probably splinched something internally since he’d Apparated without any destination in mind.

Absentmindedly, Harry pointed the Elder Wand at his own belly and started a nonverbal healing spell. Just as he finished fixing his stomach, he sensed someone Apparate behind him. He stood up and whirled around.

It was Dumbledore, his wand ready at his side but not aimed at Harry.

"What happened to Grindelwald?" asked Harry.

"He's gone," Dumbledore answered gently. "Put down the wand Harry."

Harry felt his mind—no, _Voldemort_ —woven all over his consciousness, but it was silent now that Harry knew the truth. There was still no pain, but Harry desperately wished for it.

"It's not the wand possessing me," Harry told Dumbledore. "It's Voldemort. I thought he was inside his younger self, but I was wrong."

"Put down the wand," Dumbledore repeated firmly.

Harry felt his arm aim the Elder Wand at Dumbledore, and coughed up some blood. Hopefully, he hadn't managed to repair all the damage to his stomach. It might give Dumbledore an edge.

"You have to kill me," he said.

Harry felt Voldemort rage. His breath quickened and his knees bent, ready to evade whatever Dumbledore threw at him.

_We won't die here, Potter._

Harry tried to move his arms and laughed happily when he found out he could. Easily. He felt Voldemort rage and try to blast some magic at Dumbledore, but Harry moved his hand to the side at the last moment. The green curse passed Dumbledore's side harmlessly and hit a cabinet attached to a wall behind him. Voldemort's rage bubbled up again and contorted Harry's face into an angry scowl.

It didn't matter. Harry watched as Dumbledore pointed his wand at him and held his ground. He heard Voldemort scream incoherently before a red light hit his chest and everything when black.


	13. Chapter 13

Albus watched as Harry’s face twisted into a grotesque grimace before he dropped the wand—the Elder Wand, apparently—and passed out on the floor, left arm still cradling his stomach.

The boy should probably be grateful he'd splinched his intestines and not his brain or heart. It was a miracle that he'd managed to stay standing long enough for a twitchy attempt at dueling Albus. Or maybe more evidence that a spirit currently inhabited his body, who could tell really? Albus hurried to his side and grabbed his wrist to feel his pulse. After ascertaining that his heart was beating strongly, if not particularly steadily, Albus began examining the damage to his stomach.

Inexplicably, there was none. Harry had some blood contaminating his peritoneal fluid, but his intestines were intact. Except, his entrails were still scattered over the kitchen's floor, surrounding his discarded wand. Instantly conjuring an entire set of organs was impossible, and it even if it wasn't, it would take years of specialized training to learn how to transplant them into a living being.

For the first time, Albus considered that Harry had used a wand rumored to make its master unbeatable. Cautiously, Albus looked over at the wand. He'd defeated Harry in a duel, which meant the wand the boy had been using now belonged to him. Theoretically.

With some uncertainty, Albus reached for it the wand.

It flew to his him before he'd fully extended his hand. The moment it settled in his grip, Albus closed his eyes and felt his personal connection to his magic solidify and strengthen. Instantly, he knew he could cast virtually any spell instinctively and without having to worry about concentration, mistakes, or rebounds. His toes curled and for a second, he was more terrified than elated.

"Professor Dumbledore!" he heard a feminine voice exclaim.

Swiftly, Albus opened his eyes and looked towards the stairs. Ms. Potter was hurrying down, long red robes billowing behind her. She reminded him that he needed to control the amount of damage that this entire affair would inevitably cause.

He stood up and motioned for Ms. Potter to join him. "The danger has passed," he assured her.

Ms. Potter was holding her wand and her eyes did not stop scanning the room for possible threats. Albus nodded approvingly. She must have looked for it during the commotion.

"I need your help." said Albus.

Ms. Potter nodded and took in a deep breath. "Hattie?" she asked suddenly, concern straining her voice.

"She's safe," said Albus "Go and restrain the lady on the floor," he ordered and pointed at the woman he'd dueled when he and Harry first entered the Muggle manor.

Momentarily, Ms. Potter looked taken aback but then she nodded firmly.

"I will retrieve Harry's wand," Albus finished.

Ms. Potter looked at Harry and started to reach out for him, though Albus had knew from a basic background inquiry that she had no medical training.

Albus put a hand on her shoulder. "He's only stunned," he said. "Please, go restrain the woman. I assume she's the one who kidnapped you?"

"Yes," Ms. Potter answered before starting to walk towards the unconscious woman laying a couple of meters in front of Harry. The manor really was quite expansive despite the rocky debris littering its floor. "Her name is Astrid Lambert."

"See that she remains subdued," said Albus before turning around to go back to the kitchen, pocketing his usual wand.

While passing through the Riddle dining room, he tried to sense Gellert's presence. As far as he could tell, Gellert had fled after Harry suddenly Disapparated but it was possible that the self-important fool was still in the house, hidden in his Disillusionment Charm. If that was the case, there wasn't much Albus could do besides remain alert.

Unless he was prepared to wave his newfound, deeply dangerous wand around right away.

He found Harry's wand under a particularly large chunk of entrails and used a Scouring Charm on it. The simple spell streamed out of the Elder Wand seamlessly, with almost no conscious input from Albus.

Despite the wonder he felt, a part of him wished that the Wand's power had been exaggerated. He wasn't sure anyone should hold the kind of power the Hallows were professed to have. Especially not someone like Gellert.

He resolved to ignore his growing amazement and returned to the living room. Ms. Potter was standing over the wo—Ms. Lambert, whose wrists and ankles were now restrained by chains. She was glancing at Harry worriedly and twirling a burgundy sash tied around her waist.

Albus walked towards Harry and bent down to check his pulse once again. It beat much more evenly than it had the last time Albus had checked.

"Ms. Potter," Albus started, looking up at her. "The Aurors will be here soon. You must not tell them Mr. Riddle and I were here. Say that you dueled and restrained Ms. Lambert yourself. Do not speak of Gellert Grindelwald and do not explain why they abducted you. Say you know nothing. Do you understand me?"

"But, Professor," she protested. "The wand you're holding?"

"It is in fact the Elder Wand," Albus confirmed. "But the Ministry must not know it exists. Do you understand me?"

Albus waited for her to respond and was relieved when she nodded firmly. He would hate to alter Ms. Potter's memories, but he would if he had to.

The Deathly Hallows had to remain a legend. The Wizarding World would it eat itself alive fighting for them otherwise. Albus would spend the rest of his existence worrying about what Gellert would do in order to retrieve the Elder Wand. He wasn't naïve enough to assume the fight with Gellert was over just because he'd apparently Disapparated to an unknown location after Harry tried to run.

With one last nod to Ms. Potter, Albus Disapparated to his family's home at Godric's Hollow. His magic flowed easily, as automatically as air streamed through his nose and down to his lungs. The Elder Wand made it so a wizard was only limited by the extent of his power and imagination. Or so Albus hoped because the alternative was that it simply bestowed unlimited power onto anyone who held its allegiance.

Hopefully, Ms. Potter would not try to alert the Ministry about their existence though it wouldn’t be too much of an issue if she did. He could always claim she had gone mad if she tried to tell anyone that the Deathly Hallows were real. Everyone would believe a venerated Hogwarts Professor over a fanciful lady who spent her time obsessing over children's tales. Only the most eccentric and power hungry of Purebloods would pay much attention to a scandal about the Deathly Hallows.

After Apparating at the main living room of the Dumbledore home, he arranged Harry in the biggest couch and tried to see if he reacted badly to the Apparition. His heartbeat and breathing remained steady. Before examining him further, Albus lighted all the candles around them, illuminating the large bookcase that served as a boundary between the dining room and the living room.

Many portraits were hanging on the home's light purple walls, showing many generations of the Dumbledore family. Some of his ancestors greeted him warmly but others glared at him disapprovingly and complained about his unceremonious arrival. His grandmother’s portrait complained about getting bloodstained on her most prized embroidered divan. The stupid thing was black so it wasn’t like any stains would be visible.

Albus ignored the portraits prepared to enter Harry's mind. Any guilt at the unethical nature of examining someone’s mind without their consent all but disappeared in the face of Harry’s apparent possession.

"Just what do you think you're doing here and what's wrong with that boy?" demanded a voice just before Albus could begin his examination.

Albus closed his eyes and wished for more patience than he knew he possessed.

"Master Abeforth!" he heard Donny, the family House-elf, cry. "Please, try not to fight."

Albus straightened and turned to face them.

Abeforth was holding his wand loosely, wearing white sleeping robes, and trying unsuccessfully to keep a tired frown from his face. He rolled his eyes when he met Albus' gaze.

Donny was wringing his hands at his side, looking at Albus with a concerned expression on his wrinkled face.

"Well?" Abeforth demanded, gesturing down at Harry.

"I'm sorry to drop by unannounced," said Albus. One of the portraits called him uncouth and classless. He refrained from pointing out to the room at large that the Dumbledore manor was theirs, not just Abeforth's and he therefore could visit whenever he pleased. "Hello Donny," he added instead, certain that the he would be overjoyed at a visit, no matter how unexpected.

The House-elf's eyes widened and he smiled brightly. "It's very pleasing to see you well, Master Albus."

"For Merlin's sake!" Abeforth snapped, trying to move past Albus, probably to check on Harry.

"He's only stunned," Albus tried to reassure. "I merely need to examine his mind with Legilimency."

"Yes, I know what branch of magic is used to study minds," said Abeforth.

Albus was sad to see that his brother had developed frown lines around his blue eyes since the last time they'd seen each other face to face.

"Why is he covered in blood?" asked Abeforth.

"There was a duel, but the physical wounds have been taken care of," answered Albus. "Donny, please bring me us some tea and biscuits." It'd be better for the House-elf to avoid witnessing yet another row between the Dumbledore brothers.

Donny beamed and disappeared with a pop, probably to the kitchen. Albus actually missed Donny's biscuits, especially the ones with nuts and chocolate chunks.

Abeforth interrupted Alnus' musings. "If he was injured enough that his mind may be damaged, we should take him to St. Mungo's."

With a frown, Albus said something that he knew would only serve to irritate Abeforth. "Do you really think there's anything St. Mungo's healers can do that I couldn't?"

Predictably, Abeforth frowned. "Of course," he said through pursed lips. "The great Albus Dumbledore knows best. For his sake," he said pointing at Harry, "I hope you don't make another mistake." Without another word, Abeforth Disapparated. Hopefully back to his room and to go to sleep. Not to prepare to drown his anger in Firewhiskey.

Albus sighed at the indirect mention of Ariana. Petty or not, Abeforth was right. He'd made a grave error that had cost Ariana her life.

With a sigh, he turned back to Harry and bent down again. After taking a deep breath, he used Legilimency to insert his consciousness into Harry's mind, making sure to keep a strong focus on the information his senses were relaying - (the chatter from the portraits, the divan’s thread pattern on the arm he was using for support, the chamomile scent coming from the candles). It was unlikely that the spirit possessing Harry was strong enough to take over Albus as well, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

As expected, Albus encountered no barriers protecting Harry's subconscious and went past Harry's superficial thoughts easily despite their currently chaotic nature. The boy was deeply terrified of dying but convinced that his death was necessary, though he had achieved a strange sort of calmness under the terror blanketing the surface of his consciousness.

Albus found him in what looked like a blank hallway, sitting with arms and legs crossed and staring at a white door in front of him.

There were two other teenagers sitting on either side of him. The one on the right was a tall, redheaded boy who instantly reminded Albus of the Weasley family. On the other side was a girl with bushy brown hair falling about her shoulders. Both dressed in a style Albus had never seen in the Wizarding or Muggle worlds. The girl was even wearing trousers made of a blue material similar to the trousers the redheaded boy was wearing.

After a cursory examination, Albus knew that two kids were projections from Harry's memories. Whoever they were, their images were helping to keep Harry calm.

"He's behind this door," said Harry without taking his eyes off of it.

So he could tell which thoughts belonged to him and which didn’t. Excellent.

"Who?" he asked.

"Voldemort," answered Harry. "You come to kill him?"

"I'll kill no one unless I'm certain that it's the only thing to do," said Albus. Whoever or whatever was inside Harry’s mind aside, there was only one body alive, thus only only one person who could be killed.

Harry.

"Do you believe me about the future now?"

"I'm starting to accept it as a possibility," admitted Albus. If the Deathly Hallows were real, if even a fraction of the legends were true, then things like remote time travel were a sudden, frightening possibility.

"It doesn't matter if you believe me or not," said Harry. The images of the two teenagers huddled even closer to him. "Not as long as you kill Voldemort."

"Do you understand you’re asking me to kill you?"

". . . Yes," said Harry, tilting his head to the left. It almost looked like he was laying it on the girl's shoulder. "But it's all right," he continued. "I understand. I have to die to kill him. You were right."

"You shouldn't be so willing to throw away your life, Harry," said Albus.

Once, he’d been in a similar situation. Certain that he deserved to die but desperate to live nonetheless.

Harry finally ripped his gaze from the door and looked up at Dumbledore. The images of the other two children turned to look at him as well, though their faces were curiously devoid of expressions. "It was your idea," Harry told him without any particular affect. "You told Snape to kill me. Then you told me to kill myself, but at the right time."

Albus didn't respond. He desperately hoped Harry had misinterpreted the facts because if he was telling the truth, then he'd come from a world that had turned Albus into the kind of man who would order a child's death. It would be a horrifying place to live on.

"Then I was wrong," he told Harry finally. "You should fight for life Harry. Always."

Lessons on magical possession, which he’d taken the time to learn only because Gellert had one sicced a lost spirit on Albus in a fit of petty rage, raced through Albus memories.

Keep repeating the possesed person’s name so they didn’t forget who they were. Always keep stock of your physical surroundings (the portraits were still chatting and the chamomile still wafting through Godric Hollow’s atmosphere). Try not to fight with the possessor for the victim’s mind. Not directly. A spirit has no mind to be repelled with Legilimency.

Except the more time Albus spent sifting to Harry’s mind, the more obvious it became the boy wasn’t actually being possessed, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. There was no foreign magic, or energy, or . . . anything. Just one soul, inexplicably supporting two different . . . not two different minds but two different identities.

"No, you don't understand," insisted Harry. Then he stood up and the images of the two other children vanished. "He's a monster. He needs to be put down and if that means I have to die then I'll just have to _die_."

Harry was beyond reasoning with. It would be easier to talk to him after they'd dealt with the invading spirit, assuming there was any way to deal with it at all. Albus stepped towards the white door and pushed it open.

"No wait!" Harry cried and started to move forward. He stopped abruptly when the door swung open and then stumbled against the blank wall at his back.

Behind the door was a black haired boy wearing a Hogwarts uniform in Slytherin colors. Behind him was . . . a perfect replication of the Slytherin common room.

"Professor Dumbledore?" the boy asked, tilting his head so that a few locks of gently curled brown hair fell over his forehead. He was was handsome in an effortless way that would make Gellert fume with bitter jealousy. "You look young."

"You!" Harry cried before Albus could respond.

The dark haired boy's gaze turned back to Harry, who was starting to hyperventilate. The noise of his labored breath joined the chatter of the portraits out in the physical world.

Albus stepped closer to Harry and looked at the Slytherin boy—just more of Harry’s soul as far as Albus could tell but the evening had cautioned him against dismissing everything he would’ve previously called impossible.

"I assume you're Voldemort," Albus told the spirit.

"No, it's me Professor," the other boy declared earnestly, brown eyes wide with concern. "Tom Riddle.”

Like Harry's baby.

“Don’t you remember?” asked the boy.

"How did you find yourself in another’s body?" Albus asked him. If he was going to entertain the possibility that Harry wasn’t mad and that he was telling the truth, he might as well accept Harry’s vicious certainty that he was possessed.

Tom bit his lower lip and looked down. "I'm afraid I don't know how I got here."

"Don't _know?_ " Harry demanded before Albus could respond. He stepped forward, though he still did not cross the door. "You _killed_ me." Tom raised his hand and gestured at Harry dismissively. "You're alive," he pointed out. "I saved you."

Harry looked infuriated. "You killed me," he repeated and his gaze turned towards Albus. "He's a liar. You have to believe me. Read my mind. I don't care."

"I am 'reading' your mind," Albus responded, gingerly settling for the word reading even though it was an erroneous description of Legilimency. "You're currently unconscious and laying on my family's couch."

"Fine." Harry rubbed his forehead. He pointed at Tom suddenly. "Read _his_ mind!"

"Harry, the only mind he has is yours," said Albus, looking at the other boy again.

Tom smiled and shrugged lightly.

"That’s because he’s not a mind," Harry declared with a harsh scowl. "He's a Horcrux."

Albus’ eyes narrowed. How did Harry know about such a thing?

Not that it mattered much because “Tom Riddle” was most definitely not a Horcrux, or even a spirit. He was a fully formed consciousness intricately connected but somehow shielded by Harry’s psyche.

Maybe Harry was just a very unorthodox Occlumens.

"Whatever that is, I'm sure I'm not it," said Tom, putting his hands behind his back. Then he looked off to the side. "Am I?"

"He's not," confirmed Albus.

Harry looked taken aback, glancing between Albus and Tom. "But he has to be," he said, running ran his hand through his hair. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain," answered Albus.

Harry sagged against the blank wall.

Tom looked at Harry with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. Albus wanted to say he looked concerned, but something about it felt off. The boy's expressions were too perfect, though Albus admitted it was a nonsensical complaint on his part. Maybe his dealings with Gellert were making him prejudiced against anyone blessed with a symmetrical face.

Nothing had ever prepared Albus to deal with . . . a mind without a soul was the closest yet still woefully inadequate words to describe the spectre. Albus couldn’t formulate a strategy to extricate it from Harry’s mind without irreparably damaging Harry’s brain. Not even the Elder Wand would give Albus the kind of power and finesse needed to accomplish such a task safely.

“Tell me about yourself,” he ordered the spectre, since it seemed as certain as Harry of having a separate identity.

"Well," said Harry. "I guess I want to hear how he explains this one. Go ahead Tom. Just who are you?"

"I'm a Hogwarts student and I . . .” Tom sighed and looked at his feet dejectedly. "Perhaps the Basilisk got to me as well."

Albus was about to ask for more details, but Harry interrupted once more. "You let out the Basilisk!" he cried. "You're a Parselmouth."

"Ah, no," Tom responded, biting his lower lip. "Well, yes but I'm also Muggleborn. The Basilisk wouldn't listen to me anyway."

If it was true, then it made Tom very curious indeed. Muggleborns were rarely sorted into Slytherin, though his being a Parselmouth might have influenced the Sorting Hat's decision.

Though Albus was currently betting “Tom Riddle” was just an intricate figment of Harry’s imagination.

"You're the Heir of Slytherin!" insisted Harry.

Tom seemed to consider that for a moment. "I supposed it's not impossible," he admitted with another light shrug. "I'm an orphan sir," he said to Albus. "But I still didn't release the Basilisk. And I doubt I'm the Heir of Slytherin. Why would of Slytherin's descendants have relations with Muggles?"

Harry snorted. "I don't know but your mother raped your father with _Amortentia_ ," he said.

Tom's eyes narrowed, his nose flared, and he gritted his teeth. He looked away, perhaps in an attempt to hide his obvious rage. It was the first time he'd allowed a negative emotion to show on his face and considering what Harry had just said, it’s have been more suspicious if he hadn’t.

"I wouldn't know," Tom said finally. His voice was flat.

Harry opened his mouth again, but Albus thought it best to intervene. "Back at the Riddle manor, who had control of your body?" he asked Harry.

". . . Both of us?" said Harry, rubbing at his forehead.

"That's true," Tom confirmed. His voice regained its light tone and his face was once again showing a concerned and open expression. "I helped you."

Harry gaped at him and the turned to look at Albus. "Professor he tried to kill you.”

"No," Tom argued. "He tried to kill you, Professor. Though I admit that he was very scared and confused."

"Professor, you're in my mind," Harry pleaded with Albus. "You have to know I'm telling the truth."

"I believe you honestly believe what you're saying," Albus told him, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

Harry actually let out a short, frustrated shout. He faced the wall and pushed his forehead against it. Tom sighed heavily and stepped through the door and closed it behind him. The door vanished and the three of them were left standing in a sea of blank whiteness.

"I can teach you to make this place look like anything you want," Tom offered, presumably to Harry.

The sound of Tom's voice made Harry turn around. He blanched the moment he saw Tom was out of his "room" and took a couple of steps away from him. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Get back your side."

"There are no sides," Tom said gently. "We're both in the same body."

"He's right," Albus agreed, noting that Tom was more knowledgeable than Harry about the state of their situation.

Harry's hands curled into fists. He glared at Tom and then looked at Albus again. "It's still my body and I want him gone," he said and pointed at Tom.

"I'm afraid I can't exorcise him," Albus admitted. "Not without causing damage to both your mind, brain, and soul."

"I already said I don't care!" Harry cried. "Just get _rid_ of him!"

Tom opened his mouth but Albus silenced him with a hand gesture. "I don't murder children, Harry, much less destroy their souls. We will discuss your situation further when you wake up." Albus turned around, ready to break the connection with Harry's mind. His situation was unorthodox, but he was in no immediate danger.

"Wait!" he heard Harry cry. Albus turned back around. "Don't leave me alone with him," he pleaded.

Albus looked back at Tom. He still wore a concerned expression. "Harry, he can't hurt you," said Albus. "Until I find a way to sort this out, you'll have to coexist with him." He disappeared before Harry could protest again.

When Albus opened his physical eyes, Donny was waiting for him with the tea and biscuits he'd requested. He smiled at the elf and sat at the nearest armchair. "Abeforth wanted to sleep," he told Donny. "Why don't you seat with me and take the tea you made for him. He won't mind."

"Master, Donny couldn't!" Donny protested. "Donny will start cleaning this boy while Master eats and drinks!" He set out to do just that, starting with Harry's boots.

Albus decided to let the House-elf work. It would help calm Donny much more than sharing tea with a wizard could and besides, Albus needed to consider everything that had happened during the whole night anyway.

The situation with the Elder Wand was simple enough. The Deathly Hallows were real and now he owned one.

Albus would have to make inquiries about the other two just to be sure they were not being misused. Harry had said that the Potters' Invisibility Cloak was one of them and Albus supposed he had no more reasons to disbelieve it. It was safe enough where it was. He'd need to watch Ms. Potter's movements, but he doubted she'd make any real efforts to actually gather all three Hallows.

Getting it for himself . . . Albus recoiled at the the idea. A person shouldn’t have so much power, not even someone as intelligent as him. Especially not someone as intelligent as him.

The Resurrection Stone could cause more problems.

Gellert might have it or - if they were lucky - it was hopelessly lost. As far as Albus knew, Harry didn't know where it was, though he had said that he could confirm that all three Hallows existed. Out of all three Hallows, it was probably the most dangerous one. Magic that tried to cheat death outright was always foul.

If only he’d paid more attention to Harry’s ramblings . . . Albus bit into a biscuit and smiled. Donny had thoroughly cleaned all the way to Harry’s knees and Harry hadn't even twitched.

He was probably conversing with this Tom; a conversation Albus was certain would devolve into a fight if it were happening in the living room proper. Harry seemed to utterly despise and fear the . . . other facet of himself was really the only way Albus could describe it.

Was it possible that Harry’s identity had been fracture by some sort of future magic? Or maybe they were just two damaged souls merged into a single functioning one.

Which was only ever heard of in the plots of cheap stories published in Pink Magic magazine. Albus chuckled to himself. There was certainly no love lost between Harry and Tom, that much he was obvious. Harry was so desperate to be rid of Tom that he was actually willing to die to accomplish it. Albus had no substantial evidence that his fear was rational, but he couldn't help but feel some distrust towards Tom. He didn't even think that it was latent prejudice against Slytherins, though Albus had to admit that he was usually as guilty of it as any Gryffindor.

For starters, Tom claimed did not understand how he'd gotten into Harry's body, but he knew how to project his memories into Harry's subconscious. Apparently, more than Harry himself knew how to project his own memories. Tom had recreated the Slytherin common room, while Harry had just created eerie projections of two other children.

If Tom had known where he was, why didn't he try to speak to Harry before? Albus would say that he'd been afraid to be exorcised, except Tom had appeared aware that he couldn't be separated from Harry at all. Any other spirit, for lack of a better word, would’ve been terrified by the notion of exorcism.

Still, Harry wasn't being particularly consistent either. If he despised Tom so much, why had he adopted a baby bearing his name? Were Tom the baby and Tom the spirit one and the same? It was possible if Harry truly was a time traveler.

Unfortunately, Albus had to admit that it was possible that Harry had been the one to try and killed him. He'd obviously harbored much resentment towards Albus. And Albus couldn't really blame him if his, uh . . . future self had ordered him to die.

Albus sighed and waited for Donny to finish cleaning Harry. Becoming overly preoccupied with the problem would hardly help anyone. He would watch Harry until he was sure that the boy would not attempt suicide and then he would start investigating the more complex aspects of soul magic. It wasn't really his area of expertise, so consultations with other wizards might be helpful. Perhaps Nicolas would have some helpful suggestions.

* * *

All things considered, Septimus was relatively glad that Riddle had been recruited to their side. He was obnoxious, but at least everyone at the Auror office could be reasonably sure that he wouldn't join forces with English criminals to defend himself against Grindelwald, not if the Dark Wizard was already set on killing him.

Still, Septimus was surprised that Riddle hadn't been hiding at Knockturn Alley considering his obvious disdain for law enforcement.

Despite his derision, Septimus’ instincts insisted Riddle wasn't too bad of a person. He hadn't resorted to breaking the law when he got to England. Bottom-feeders were not the kind of people who would willingly work as a pub server and Riddle had done it for five months.

More importantly, Professor Dumbledore was on his side. That was enough to make Septimus keep an open mind about Riddle, even if he didn't have a staunch supporter in Ms. Moreau. Unlike Mr. Bolter, Septimus never believed that Ms. Moreau had fallen prey to Riddle's virtually nonexistent charms. She struck Septimus as a sensible girl, so if she said that Riddle was not a bad sort then Septimus was inclined to believe her.

Either way, he had turned out be more useful than most Muggle Affairs Consultants in only one day. His knowledge of Muggle explosives had been detailed enough that Mr. Farwell managed to get the Goblin liaisons to listen to them for once.

Feeling somewhat content, Septimus finished the day's report and started to get ready for home. He was halfway to the service lifts when he Diggory reached him. "There's been another attack," he said when Septimus turned around. "Farwell wants to know if you can get Riddle to come along."

"He's not working nights," said Septimus. "Where's the attack?"

"Little Hangleton," answered Diggory.

Septimus didn't even ask where specifically. "I can try and find him," he said. "His paperwork said he's living with Owen Williams."

Diggory nodded. "See that you do, but after you Apparate me and Farwell to Little Hangleton. We haven't been there personally."

They headed back to the Auror office but were intercepted by Mr. Farwell before they got there. He didn't ask Spetimus any questions and merely extended his hand. Once Diggory did the same, Septimus concentrated and Apparated at the Riddle manor. Hopefully, they'd land in a place with no witnesses or the Obliviators would throw a fit.

There turned out to be another person but at least she was a witch.

"Thank Merlin," she said. "I thought the Muggles would get here first. I'm Rosalind Potter."

The manor was in disarray. One of the walls had been blasted through. Someone had gathered wood at the fireplace to the left of the chasm in the wall and lighted a fire but it was not doing much to illuminate the place. There were shattered bricks scattered all over the floor. Septimus’ nose flared when the scent of drying blood made it to his nostrils. Ms. Potter was standing over an unconscious woman.

Septimus let Farwell and Diggory do the talking and Disapparated to Owen Williams' house, thankful that Mr. Bolter had insisted on investigating it during his paranoia. When he Apparated in the small kitchen, he found Ms. Moreau sitting on Mr. Williams' lap.

Septimus flushed as Ms. Moreau quickly hopped off her fiancé's thighs and smoothed down her skirt. "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"How did you know to Apparate here?" Ms. Moreau demanded, her green headscarf glinting where the candle's light hit it.

Mr. Williams stood behind her and scowled. Even though he was just a Muggle, Septimus still had to fight an urge to shrink away. Mr. Williams was the only man Septimus had ever met who was taller than him.

"I'm really sorry," he repeated, hoping no one would demand to know when and why he'd been there before. "I'm looking for Mr. Riddle."

"He's with Professor Dumbledore," said Ms. Moreau. "Why?"

"Ministry business," answered Septimus. "And the baby?"

"Sleeping," responded Ms. Moreau. "Why ask about him?"

"Ask Mr. Riddle when you see him again," said Septimus before leaving.

He went back to the Riddle manor to explain to Mr. Farwell and Diggory that Riddle was apparently with Professor Dumbledore. The Obliviators were already there though it seemed like they'd only have to deal with the Muggle policemen the villagers had called. They were all already entranced, and two of the Obliviators were repairing the wall that had been destroyed.

Septimus looked around until he spotted Diggory heading to a room south of the living room and followed. Diggory walked past what looked like a dining room and stopped dead at the manor's kitchen. Septimus coughed and smelled something so foul it made him gag just as Diggory moved to the side to let him enter the kitchen.

Bloodied entrails were strewn all over the floor. Some of it had ruptured and painted the tiles with excrement. Septimus looked away and fought off another wave of nausea. Technically, he'd seen worse things in his brief stint with Aurors, but nothing yet had been accompanied by such a disgusting aroma.

"Riddle?" he heard Diggory ask.

"With Professor Dumbledore," answered Septimus. "Or so Ms. Moreau says. What happened here?"

"Ms. Potter said she was kidnapped by some French witch," said Diggory, sighing heavily. He started to look around the room, carefully stepping over gut pieces. "Astrid Lambert. Then she managed to fight her off and stun her. We woke her but she hasn't said anything yet."

"So what next?" he asked, struggling with an instinctive drive to get as far away from the foul entrails as he could. It was his job to investigate such things after all.

"I think Anton Lestrange is a Legilimens," answered Diggory.

Septimus recognized the name. The man was one of the few confirmed Unspeakables.

"If he can't get anything out of her,” continued Diggory, “we'll need Veritaserum."

"So this woman hasn't been mind-controlled?" asked Septimus. Mr. Farwell wouldn’t be going through such lengths to question her if she wasn’t.

"Not according to the Healer I brought here," said Diggory, walking back to the kitchen’s entrance. "There's nothing here I can see."

"Do you think someone's dead?" asked Septimus, gesturing at the entrails. He found that he was getting used to the smell.

"Hard to say without a body," answered Diggory. "These might not even be human. We should go get the Healer."

While they walked back to the living room, Septimus thanked Merlin’s entire family tree that the awkwardness between him and Diggory seemed to be dissipating. Diggory was one of the people he most admired in the Academy. He would have hated to lose their tentative friendship thanks to the early promotion fiasco.

Mr. Farwell was still talking to Ms. Potter when they made it back to the living room. Septimus scanned the room for anyone in lime green robes and saw a wizard leaning against the stairs. The man yawned rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Since there were no real injuries or suspecting Muggles, the majority of people at the scene looked somewhat at ease.

The atmosphere was less tense and anxious than it usually was at these kinds of cases. The only one who looked like he was under real pressure besides Septimus and Diggory was Mr. Farwell, probably because he understood the danger of the situation.

"Do you think Riddle’s really with Professor Dumbledore?" Diggory asked while they walked over to the healer.

"I—" Septimus was suddenly cut off by a loud yell from Mr. Farwell. He turned around, wand already out, but saw no one he didn't recognize as a member of the Ministry.

"What in Merlin's—" Diggory started to say but was interrupted by Ms. Potter.

"She's gone!"

The atmosphere in the room shifted from relaxed to alert and anxious almost instantly. The healer had straightened up and pulled out his wand. The Obliviators stopped trying to repair the hole in the wall and shifted into a defensive stance. Ms. Potter pulled out her wand and put her back to the wall. Diggory raced to Mr. Farwell and covered his back while the older Auror started casting a tracking charm. Septimus ran to Ms. Potter, ready to defend her if necessary.

"How?" she asked when he got to her side.

"I don't know," Septimus admitted. The enchanted chains that Aurors used were outfitted with Anti-Disapparition Jinxes. Not that most people could Disapparate without a wand.

Suddenly, Mr. Farwell stopped trying to cast the tracking charm and bellowed profanity at the spot Ms. Lambert had been. "By Merlin's bollocks!" he finished. "There's too much strange magic in this place and I don't know which trail belongs to that blasted woman!"

Septimus closed his eyes. If they couldn't track Ms. Lambert, she was as good as gone. "We should contact an artist," he heard Diggory say. "We might still get an image for a wanted poster."

Mr. Farwell grumbled something and headed Ms. Potter's way. He'd probably told Diggory to get the Obliviators to enlist the Muggle policemen in case the Muggle villagers might see a woman fitting Ms. Lambert's description.

Septimus wasn't too hopeful about it. Like he'd learned at the Academy, very few magical criminals who escaped into the Muggle world were caught. As long as they were cautious, they could live like ghosts.

Nevertheless, Septimus nodded at Ms. Potter and decided to show the intestines to the healer. If they turned out to be human, it would all but confirm that whoever had been living at the Riddle manor had been using Dark magic.

Then he'd try to find Riddle again. At the very least, he needed to know that his baby's biological family was most likely dead.


	14. Chapter 14

The image of Tom Riddle rolled its eyes the moment Dumbledore disappeared from Harry's mind. The disturbingly concerned expression melted of his face to reveal a look of impatience and annoyance. Harry braced himself for the unbearable pain he would feel when Voldemort inevitably tried to take over his body again. He waited, legs slightly apart, but Voldemort just looked at him with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to the right.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter," he said. "If I could torture or possess you, I’d have done it already."

Harry ignored him and tried to analyze his own mind. At least he could differentiate which feelings and ideas belonged to him, and which ones were coming from Voldemort. Under Harry's terror, there was an overwhelming feeling of impotent rage and self loathing. He'd lost the Elder Wand, and to Dumbledore of all people.

Harry recognized those feelings as Voldemort's, not his. Did Voldemort hate Harry or himself?

"I hate you obviously," said Voldemort.

So they could read each other's minds.

Voldemort sent him a look of deep disgust.

Harry smiled and closed his eyes. He remembered Snape saying something about "mind reading" being inaccurate and ignorant. Something only an idiot raised by Muggles would say. Maybe Voldemort had thought of it that way too when he first learned about Legilimency. He felt an unfamiliar surge of outrage, and chuckled.

"If you can feel such joy thanks to my anger and apparent helplessness, then I suppose there's hope for you yet," said Voldemort.

Briefly, Harry felt a sharp stab of shame. Then he remembered that Voldemort was mass-murdering monster who didn't deserve anyone's sympathy. He opened his eyes and studied the satisfied smirk adorning Voldemort's face, a stark reminder that no one could enjoy cruelty and suffering as much as him.

Still, Harry shouldn't be wasting time feeling glee at Voldemort's "apparent" helplessness. The bastard could be patient when it suited him. For all Harry knew, he was planning on murdering him at the proper time.

"That was my original plan," admitted Voldemort. "But after five months in here, I think I have to accept I’m stuck with you for the time being and plan accordingly."

Then Harry would have to do everything he could to stop whatever plans he had. Voldemort snorted, but Harry didn't care. Merlin's pants—he'd managed to mess up Voldemort's plans at eleven years of age. He could do so now, especially if Voldemort couldn't even really hurt him.

"Brilliant," said Voldemort. "Are you certain that your sudden confidence is yours or mine?"

Harry ruthlessly ignored the sudden rush of panic that threatened to overtake him when he considered the implications of that statement. Dumbledore had said that Voldemort couldn't take him over. His only hope was to drive Harry into catatonic despair so he could do as he pleased without any interference. But he wouldn't manage it. Harry could handle verbal abuse. Hadn't he dealt with the Dursleys his whole life?

"And better control over your emotions!" said Voldemort, leaning against a blank wall that somehow materialized behind him and playing with his green-striped scarf. "I think this entire situation has been beneficial for you."

"Shut up!" Harry yelled finally. How dare he imply he was anything less than a festering, cancerous wound in Harry's entire existence? How dare he?

"I'm not implying anything," responded Voldemort, straightening up and taking a few steps closer to Harry. "I'm outright saying it, you barely literate idiot. The only reason you haven't drowned in pathetic self-pity over the last five months is me."

Maybe that was true. He’d attacked Owen, for starters.

"You were letting a filthy Muggle beat you in fight," snapped Voldemort.

The way he'd killed one of the Leaky Cauldron attackers with _Sectumsempra._

"That only happened because you're painfully incompetent."

His knowledge of advance magic and . . . science?

"Of course I know Physics and Chemistry. I'm going to conquer the Muggle world one day. I must neutralize their weapons," snapped Voldemort. "Honestly, how you ever survived without me is baffling."

Right, of course. Because Harry had never dealt with awful situations before this one. It wasn't like Voldemort had been actively ruining every aspect of his life since he was an infant.

With a disgusted snort, Harry closed his eyes and tried to find a way to block the bastard. It had to be possible. He'd been behind a door before Dumbledore had shown up. Maybe Harry could make him go back to the fake Slytherin common room until he found a way to get rid of him.

"I was in there because I chose to be," said Voldemort.

Harry opened his eyes again. The blankness around them was suddenly replaced with the dark walls of the Slytherin common room. The heat, scents, and crackling slithered through Harry’s senses. Instinctively, he knew which couch was comfiest, which table offered the best reading light. He almost panicked again but calmed down when he detected no change in the amount of . . . distance between Voldemort and himself.

Dumbledore had said Voldemort couldn’t possess him.

Hadn't Voldemort briefly taken control of his body back at the Riddle manor? Hadn't he tried to kill Dumbledore? Maybe he was only biding his time, waiting to recover completely from whatever his last Killing Curse had done to him. Voldemort was an excellent liar. Harry couldn't afford to let his guard down simply because Dumbledore hadn't seen through his lies right away.

He watched as Voldemort sauntered to his favorite couch (one right by the fire everyone knew to steer clear of because it was his) and lay down in one smooth motion.

Harry tried to read his mind again cautiously. Voldemort's anger and frustration were firmly shoved behind a deliberate blanket of patience and determination. Not knowing what else to do, Harry walked over to a smaller couch a few feet away from Voldemort. His second favorite, perfect for days when he wasn’t in the mood to sit too close to the fireplace. Voldemort shot him a resentful look before laying his head back and closing his eyes.

Miraculously, Voldemort's current emotions confirmed Dumbledore's theory. He was stuck in Harry's mind and he had no idea how to take control of Harry's body. Harry watched him, half-expecting him to . . . Voldemort grunted, then twisted on his couch like cat (absurd; he looked . . . normal) and then his nose was buried in a book.

How had he managed to get it?

Of course, now that he had a question that he actually wanted answered, Voldemort ignored him. Maybe his mind worked like a sort-of Room of Requirement. On a whim, he focused on an image of a generic book, hoping one would appear. Nothing happened except Voldemort suddenly felt like wearily depressed.

"You're so stupid I'm almost ashamed I had to work so hard to kill you," said Voldemort.

Harry shot him a glare. "Are you hearing my thoughts?"

"No, I'm just guessing every one of your rudimentary and fallacious deductions with one hundred percent accuracy," answered Voldemort, turning over a page in his book.

That just wasn't fair. Not only could he not get rid of Voldemort, he'd also have to deal with bastard hearing each and every one of his ideas and offering sarcastic commentary on them.

"You'd probably be able to hear me as well," said Voldemort. "If you weren't shying away from me like an indecisive debutante every time you try to examine our . . . unorthodox arrangement."

"Why would tell me that?" asked Harry.

"Because I understand you very well," answered Voldemort. "You're too scared to merge with me enough to discover my plans and motivations. Even if I gave you step-by-step instructions on how to do it, you still wouldn't."

If Voldemort thought he was stupid enough to fall for such transparent goading, then he wasn't smart as he thought he was, which was a thought Harry very much hoped his unwanted tenant could hear loud and clear.

But he'd have to talk to Dumbledore about how to shield his thoughts. Knowing his luck, Dumbledore would just think he was being paranoid and delusional again but his only other option was to speak to Ms. Potter about it and—Merlin!

He hadn't ordered Hattie to keep his true family name secret.

Harry cringed, but then again, maybe it was for the best. She might be more willing to help him get rid of Voldemort if she started to consider him family.

He heard another snort and resolved to ignore it. His time was better spent trying to figure out how to change his . . . mental environment or whatever. The Slytherin common room made him feel vaguely violated, like his mind was being made to look like Voldemort's bedroom or something equally horrible.

Maybe starting with a book was too complicated. He focused on one of the green lanterns illuminating the room and imagined it was Gryffindor red. They remained stubbornly green. Harry frowned and closed his eyes. He was hit with a wave of petty satisfaction from Voldemort.

Apparently, he'd have to spend the rest of his undoubtedly miserable existence with his mind outfitted to look like his worst enemy's favorite place. It sounded just like something that would happen to him.

Determined not to rise to the bait, Harry lay back on his couch. He needed to stay as calm as possible. The biggest reason he was such an awful Occlumens was his complete inability to control his emotions. What did it matter what this place looked like? As longs as Voldemort was unable to take over his body, then everything would be all right. He could endure everything else. He had to endure everything else.

Though hopefully things would get better once he woke up. And he would wake up, right?

Harry shook his head and fought off another wave of anxiety. Of course he would wake up. Dumbledore wouldn't just leave him in a vegetative state with some unknown spirit sharing his mental space.

"Wouldn't he?" asked Voldemort from his side of the room.

Momentarily, Harry’s stopped breathing. Then he ordered himself to calm the hell down. Dumbledore had said they would discuss his "situation" when Harry woke up.

And even if he was stuck as a vegetable, then so was Voldemort.

Who would be feeling a lot more frustrated if that was the case. Harry's body was probably just recovering from the splinched intestines. Jauntily, Harry began a humming a simple tune to pass the time.

Almost immediately, he felt Voldemort being overcome by irritation.

Perversely, Harry hummed louder.

Voldemort did not say anything, but Harry paused anyway when he felt a harsh surge of rage coming from him.

Then he burst out laughing and felt Voldemort get even angrier. It was one of the best things Harry had ever felt. He might use the memory to help him get a Patronus later. Voldemort could do nothing to stop him. He really was helpless. They'd just have to learn to live with anything the other decided to do. For Harry, it was horrifying. Sure. But he could still revel on the fact that, for the first time, they were actually on equal footing. Voldemort raged and Harry laughed even more hysterically.

"You really believe you could ever be evenly match me in any way?" demanded Voldemort.

Harry looked at him. His book had vanished and his face was twisted into such a harsh scowl that he almost looked ugly.

It made Harry giggle more than a little hysterically. Nothing funny was happening but it didn’t seem to matter. Voldemort's rage simmer down and become more focused, but Harry wasn't worried. If Voldemort could actually do anything to him, he’d be a vegetable in his own mind.

Suddenly, Harry felt Voldemort's presence become . . . sharper.

He supposed he should have panicked, but his snorts and giggles only intensified. If anything, Voldemort's closeness only increased Harry's certainty that he could do nothing because it brought his feelings of frustrated impotence to the forefront of Harry's awareness. He leaned back against the couch and laughed some more. Why didn't he need to draw in new breaths?

Before he could spend much time wondering about that, he heard a long scream coming from the floor. Startled, he look down a saw a blond woman twitch and convulse before she stopped screaming only to start coughing up gobs of blood.

"Please . . ." she begged at Harry. "Please, my Lord!" Her eyes widened in fear and she began screaming again, her arms and legs twitching as if she was having a seizure.

"What?" Harry demanded, refusing to so much as get up from his couch. "Think I'm going to start crying because you tortured a Death Eater at some point?" Like Harry wasn't aware that he was a sadistic bastard.

"This was an undercover Auror," clarified Voldemort as the woman bent her back so much that her hips lifted off the floor. Some of her joints cracked in response to her violent convulsions.

"Oh well then," Harry started, "that makes it all more shocking and devastating."

The woman continued to shriek for a few more moments. Then her torturer paused and she huddled in a fetal position, trying to deepen her shallow breaths.

Maybe Harry should feel guilty at his lack of reaction but what was the point? She was already dead. The only thing he could do to honor her memory was withstand Voldemort's emotional attacks. He tried to focus on his own indifference and hoped that was the only one of his emotions Voldemort would sense.

The woman started screaming again, though her voice so strained she couldn't be as loud as before. When the torturer stopped, she was wracked with another painful coughing fit until she vomited blood. Suddenly, her wounds seemed to seal up and her coughing abated. She tried to crawl away but then started screaming and twitching before she could put any real distance between herself and her attacker.

"Go ahead, show me some more awful things," Harry challenged. "Nothing could surprise me after what I saw in your little Horcrux cave."

Voldemort smirked and the blond woman disappeared mid-scream.

Harry prepared himself for another vision of any of Voldemort's torture victims. Instead, he saw a tall man in dark grey robes examine deep red liquid boiling in a cauldron so large it was on the floor, surrounded by large chunks of coals glowing orange with heat, its brim reaching as tall as the man's hip. The man extended his hand and moved his wrist in a downward circular motion. A large wooden pole materialized and started to stir the red potion according to the man's movements.

Why Voldemort was expecting Harry to be scared by a wizard mixing an unknown potion was unclear. Nevertheless, Voldemort's helpless rage had been replaced by a strange sort of satisfaction, so Harry prepared to see whatever ugly thing was about to happen.

The man ceased moving the wooden pole and pushed the hood off his head. It was a middle-aged Voldemort, but the only reason Harry recognized him right away was that younger version of him was standing behind him to his right.

Most of his hair had thinned so much that some of his scalp was visible and what little was left of it was already going grey. His cheeks looked painfully hollow and there were ugly dark circles under his eyes. The bluish tracks of his veins were visible anywhere his skin was stretched by bones. Only his lips were still full and pink, though they looked almost red against the sallow paleness of his face.

Why would Voldemort show himself being ravaged by Dark Magic and be so smug about it?

The older Voldemort turned in Harry's direction and frowned. For a second, it scared Harry into thinking he'd be dealing with two different ones, but then the older Voldemort spoke to someone Harry could not see.

"Not now," he said with a tired frown, turning back around to mind the giant cauldron again.

Immediately after, a young woman with thick dark hair materialized behind the older Voldemort. She wore only dark knickers, which made Harry blush even though she wasn’t facing him and her thick dark hair hid most of her bum.

He felt Voldemort's increasingly amused vindication as the woman kissed his older self's neck and persuaded him to turn around in a sing song voice. Inexplicably, the older Voldemort still looked annoyed that a beautiful, half-naked woman was trying to eat his lips.

"Bella, I said I'm _busy_ ," he complained between kisses. She giggled and started to push his robes off his shoulders.

For the moment, Harry was paralyzed by confusion. Somehow, the idea that Voldemort had a sex life never once crossed his mind.

Then Harry shot to his feet because Bellatrix managed to wrestle the robes off the older Voldemort’s shoulders and Harry was treated to the awful knowledge that Voldemort wasn't wearing anything under them. He turned around but could not escape the sight of Bellatrix falling halfway to her knees—which revealed the older Voldemort's pasty and skinny chest—when Harry had enough. He closed his eyes but—to his horror—the image of Bellatrix kissing her way down Voldemort's sunken belly didn't vanish.

Harry’s disgust mingled with a rising level of panic. If Voldemort could force him to see this, what else could he force him to do?

When Bellatrix actually sucked on one of Voldemort's hipbones Harry desperately tried to find something else to look at. He settled for scrutinizing Voldemort's bare feet until he heard the younger one laugh loud enough Harry could almost pretend he didn’t hear the older one’s breath hitch. Almost against his will, Harry glimpsed at Bellatrix and saw her bob her head a little. He tried to look away again, but it seemed that no matter where he moved his eyes he'd still have to see Bellatrix doing . . . that to a skeletal looking Voldemort.

"All right, all right!" Harry yelled. "I'm sorry about laughing, just make that _stop!_ "

Mercifully, the image vanished, giant cauldron and all. Harry let out a huge, relieved sigh. He was sure that Voldemort could do things even more humiliating than forcing him to watch a memory of him have sex with Bellatrix, but he was having trouble imagining any.

"I have to be honest,” said Voldemort as he sauntered back to his couch. “I was expecting you to focus on the cauldron." Under the smug satisfaction at forcing Harry to be afraid of him again, Voldemort was sincerely amused.

Harry had to admit that he had no idea what had been brewing in the giant cauldron. It might have been red, but he wouldn't bet anything important on it.

Voldemort laughed some more and Harry threw him a dirty look.

"And keep your hysterics to yourself in the future," said Voldemort. "Or you'll find yourself an expert on Bellatrix Lestrange's sexual proclivities."

Why Bellatrix be panting after Voldemort even after he turned into a walking skeleton?

"Bella was never attracted to my looks," Voldemort said smugly. "In fact, I was no longer attractive by the time I met her."

"You're not attractive now," declared Harry, ignoring the way Voldemort simply looked at him and smirked. "Why do you still look like teenager anyway?"

"I wasn't aware that you preferred my older form," said Voldemort, standing up once more. Without warning, his Slytherin uniform morphed into the long black robes the older Voldemort wore. His hair disappeared and his pale skin turned almost translucent white. Finally, his dark brown eyes turned bloody red and his nose sunk into his face.

Strangely, Harry did prefer him like this. The years of mutilating himself with Dark magic were clearly displayed on his snake-like nose and mouth and the missing eyebrows rendered his usually expressive face into a grotesque madk. It was disconcerting to see Voldemort looking like a harmless boy.

Bizarrely, Harry detected a feeling of honest pride from Voldemort after he had to recoil from a loud hiss. Harry knew that Voldemort was insane, of course, but he'd never been so viscerally aware of it before now. He'd always assumed that Voldemort never changed his unnatural appearance because he'd been unable to, but he wasn't sure anymore.

"Wait, you actually think _this_ ," he waved a hand up and down, "is better than what you used to look like?"

"Of course," Voldemort said in his wheezy, serpentine voice. "I had transcended the mundane needs of the physical realm. I was close to achieving domination of the Wizarding World and preparing my assault plan on Britain's Muggle government. Immortality was within my grasp." He huffed and then morphed back to his teenaged self, and mundane scowl was dominating his once again handsome features. "And now I'm trapped in your inane, stupid, _pathetic_ mind. I'm more vulnerable than I've ever been. My soul is chained to a single, idiotic spot. I've no choice but to protect you if I want to keep myself safe. You feel disgusted to have me here? You're the imbecile. I become dumber every second I'm linked to you."

". . . So your soul is whole again," Harry responded, focusing on Voldemort's insane anguish at that particular thought. Was that even a good thing?

"It's a good thing for _you_ ," Voldemort snarled. "Dumbledore is alive once more," he continued ranting. "And thanks to you, he's the master of the Elder Wand again. When I find my way out of here, I'm going to make you beg me to kill you."

With one last scowl, Voldemort's image vanished and left Harry alone in the Slytherin common room.

For a second, Harry dared to hope Voldemort was truly gone. He obviously wasn't. Harry could still feel him as clearly as he did when his image was standing right in front of him. The frustration at being wholly pinned down to Harry's soul was masking all his other emotions. Harry decided to be glad that he'd gone off to sulk and looked at his surroundings again.

There had to be a way he could get rid of the eerie, green tint to the lighting at least.

After a few minutes of trying to change the green lanterns by wishing really hard, Harry gave up and closed his eyes. There were more important things he needed to be doing, starting with waking up. He was much calmer now that he was reasonably certain Voldemort wouldn't be able to do anything without Harry's knowledge. Voldemort would know everything Harry tried to do as well, but that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Harry didn't have any nefarious plans to hide and he didn't need Voldemort's cooperation for anything. For the first time in his war with Voldemort, he actually had the upper hand.

Since he had no idea what else to do, he decided to take a nap and ignored his own wonders about whether it was possible to mentally sleep while literally sleeping. As much as he hated the place, the Slytherin leather couches were really comfortable and he had no problems falling into a light, dreamless nap.

Harry only encountered trouble when he tried to wake up again. It was like there was an incredibly heavy blanket keeping him trapped on the couch. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as though that were made of steel.

The only reason Harry didn't panic was that whatever was wrong wasn't coming from Voldemort. In fact, the bastard felt farther away from Harry than he'd felt in hours. Whatever the problem was didn't have anything to do with him. Harry was probably just having trouble waking up after being stunned by Dumbledore. Bracing himself for a struggle, he started trying to force his limbs to obey his commands.

He didn't know how long he lay on the bed, painstakingly reestablishing control of his own body. The process was uncomfortable, accompanied by painful cramps every time he tried to bend any joint. For some reason, opening his eyes was the most difficult task to accomplish. Harry was sure he'd actually managed to drag his eyelids up a few times, but his eyes remained unable to see.

Eventually, Harry did manage to open his eyes and move his neck. From his position on the soft bedding, he could make out a flock of birds flying about in a painting in the left wall. All things considered, whatever he was had a welcoming atmosphere: warm without being oppressive and no hint of unnecessary Slytherin greenness seeping into his eyes. He could detect the faint scent of flowers. Dumbledore had probably taken him to the home of someone he trusted.

Harry would worry about where he was after he regained the ability to move. He turned his attention back to moving his arms and legs and found that it was much easier to do now that he was awake. It was still painful, but he was making significant process despite the way his limbs trembled. In no time, he was sitting at edge of the large bed, carefully testing the strength of his legs. Putting too much weight on them made Harry feel light-headed, so he decided to wait a few minutes and looked around the room some more.

The walls were painted in a nice shade of light purple, and there was another portrait hanging right beside an old-fashioned armoire in front of the bed, though the subject of its painting wasn't in it. There was an equally old-fashioned looking door right next to the empty portrait. Harry turned his head to the left and saw oval mirror mounted on top of a dresser. There was a smaller set of drawers right next to him with a vase full of yellow flowers on top of it. Right next to the base was a large, spherical, transparent potion phial filled with a clear liquid and labeled as a mouth-washing draught.

As soon as he read the label, Harry became aware of the foul taste filling his mouth. He only spared a second of hesitation before grabbing the vial, uncapping it, and taking a mouthful of the potion. Instantly, he the liquid started working and moved it all over his mouth. When he was done, he looked to the floor and found an empty, clean basin on the floor. He spat out the potion and capped the phial before placing it next to the vase of flowers again.

Cleaning his mouth made him aware that he was quite hungry, which was a relief considering his intestines had been literally ripped out of him not very long ago. Gingerly, Harry tried to put some weight on his feet again and was happy that it didn't almost make him black out. He stood up slowly, using the drawers to help him keep balance, and ready to sit back down if it was too much. When he didn't immediately stumble, he let go of the drawers and straightened up.

His pace improved as he made the few steps towards the dresser. Harry was a little apprehensive about what he would see in the mirror but he needed to know what he looked like before he could face the world. He sagged with relief when he saw his own face looking back at him.

A part of him had been terrified that he'd see Voldemort's influence written all over his face. That wasn't the case at all. There were dark bags under his and his lips were pale. The red lines in the white of his eyes sharply contrasted the green of his irises. His cheeks were dusted with the beginnings of a beard. Even the scar was there, not even a twinge of pain even though Voldemort was literally inside him.

For the first time, Harry noticed that he was barefoot and started looking for his boots. They were placed by the drawer near that bed. Harry wondered how he missed them before and walked back to put them on. He was putting on the second one when he realized he didn't know where his wand was. Even though Dumbledore was the one who’d brought him to the unknown house, Harry still didn't want to walk out of the room with no wand.

His musings were interrupted by a voice he didn’t recognize.

"Well," it said snottily. "I see that Albus' stray has woken up."

Harry looked up for a person but found no one. It took him a few moments to realize that the voice was coming from the previously empty portrait by the armoire. It was now occupied by a middle-aged man who looked strangely like Harry imagined Dumbledore would look if he constantly wore a superior look on his face. Before Harry could formulate a response, the man made a derisive noise and walked away from his portrait.

Harry shook his head and stood up again. The dizziness and muscle weakness seemed to be completely gone but his hunger had only intensified. His stomach grumbled impatiently for food so Harry walked out of the room and made his ways down a wide set of stairs that reminded him of the ones in the Potter manor. Absentmindedly, he Apparated a few steps ahead just to see if he could. No Anti-Disapparition Jinx blocked him. Being able to Disapparate probably wouldn't help him much in a fight since he was only recently recovered from a Stunning Charm and hungry as a stray dog but it was better than nothing.

A sudden, loud pop coming from behind him almost made Harry jump out of his skin. He turned around swiftly, ready to run if necessary, but it was only an old House-elf wearing a mercifully clean towel like a toga.

"Good morning," he said, bowing deeply. "Donny is honored to greet a guest of Master Albus. Please, come downstairs to the dining room. Master Albus invites you to join him for breakfast."

Donny led Harry to the kitchen, where a table was brimming with deliciously smelling food. "Thank you," Harry just barely managed to tell Donny before falling into a chair and reaching for a piece of warm bread.

Donny beamed. "Master Albus’ friend is most welcomed," he said with another bow. "Donny prepared light foods for him because Master Albus said his friend might have an upset stomach."

Harry nodded and reached for some thin broth. Light food or not, he started feeling much better the moment he tasted the bread. He dipped a piece into the broth and ate it, delighted that it was plenty tasty despite the fact that Donny said he'd prepared only stuff suitable for sick people. He smiled at the House-elf as reached for his tea. After taking a swallow, he prepared to ask for Dumbledore, who coincidentally Apparated behind Donny just as Harry opened his mouth.

"Good morning," Dumbledore beamed at Harry before sitting down.

Donny smiled and bowed so low his nose almost touched the floor. "Good morning!" he exclaimed. "Donny hopes Master Albus slept very well!" The plates in front of Dumbledore instantly filled with food. Harry noted jealousy that he had sausages, hash browns, and baked beans on his plate. There were also large biscuits with bits of chocolate all over them.

"Did you reach an understanding with your spirit?" asked Dumbledore.

"He's not my spirit," Harry spat. He felt Voldemort mentally bristle at the description as well, which only made him more irritated because they were agreeing.

"But you did speak to him?" Dumbledore insisted.

Without warning, Harry flashed on the memory of the blond Auror coughing up blood and winced. "Yes," he told Dumbledore. "Are you sure you can't exorcise him?"

"Quite. Are you still determined to die?" Dumbledore asked before biting off a piece of the sausage he'd picked up with his fork.

The question caught Harry off guard. Vaguely, he remembered asking Dumbledore to kill him and then insisting that he was fine with dying if it meant that Voldemort would die with him. He'd been honest at the time but, now that he was certain that Voldemort wasn't an immediate threat, Harry was much less eager to kill himself. He looked away from Dumbledore and bit off another piece of bread.

"No," he admitted after swallowing. "Where's my wand?"

"Do you mean the Elder Wand?" Dumbledore asked mildly.

"No," Harry responded and couldn't hide a smirk. "That belongs to you now. Voldemort's still sulking about it." There was a rush of rage in the back of his mind, but that only made Harry happier.

At least, it did until he flashed on the memory of Bellatrix kissing Voldemort's sharp hipbone.

"Fine!" he said to himself quickly. "Not laughing anymore." Harry almost lost his appetite.

Dumbledore smiled and waved the Elder Wand at the table. Harry's old wand appeared in front of Harry's plate. He picked it up quickly, relieved that he hadn't broken it or something similar. "My outer robe?" he asked.

Donny, who'd been standing quietly by the table, snapped his fingers and the robe appeared in front of Harry. He pocketed his wand and went back to eating, happy that his bowl seemed to be filling up with more broth whenever he got close to the bottom. Dumbledore placed the small book he'd gotten from Ms. Potter's library on the table.

Instantly, Harry realized taking it had been Voldemort's idea.

"I took it from Ms. Potter's library," said Harry. "Voldemort wanted it. Do whatever you want with it."

Voldemort raged in the back of Harry’s mind but said nothing.

Dumbledore smiled and waved the Elder Wand. The book disappeared from the table. "What do you plan to do now?"

Another question Harry didn't have an answer for. Dedicate his life to making sure Voldemort was never free? How much of his time would that take really?

Dumbledore was still looking at him between bites of his sausage, patiently waiting for an answer.

Objectively, not much had changed last night. Harry was still in the past. He still owed his friends an attempt to stop Voldemort from ever rising to power. The other Voldemort.

"I still have to raise Tom—" he started and then slapped his forehead. "Annie's going to kill me!" He finished one last bowl of broth and stood up.

"I owled Ms. Moreau," said Dumbledore as Harry pushed an arm through the sleeves of his robes. "Now," Dumbledore continued, "tell me about your spirit. Calmly."

"I already told you," Harry answered, not particularly concerned about how accurate that statement was. He picked up another piece of bread and didn’t sit back down. "He's a crazy Dark Wizard. I went to try to kill him. I was holding the Resurrection Stone, the Elder Wand was technically mine, and I was the owner of the Invisibility Cloak cause my father left it to me. He hit me with the Killing Curse and I woke up here." He swallowed some tea.

"And how did he manage to attach himself to your soul?" Dumbledore asked and bit into a hash brown.

Harry wasn't about to admit that he'd been tricked by a bloody fetus, so he just shrugged and looked away.

"Why do you know what a Horcrux is?"

"Because, Voldemort," Harry answered impatiently.

"This Voldemort made a Horcrux?" Dumbledore asked with a touch of skepticism.

"He made seven," Harry answered tonelessly. For the first time he could remember, Dumbledore actually looked shocked. "I was the last one."

Dumbledore looked down at his plate. "That's why I said you had to die."

"Yes," Harry confirmed. He put his bread down and tentatively tried to sense Voldemort's emotions. For some reason, he was stubbornly ignoring the whole exchange. "I don't know why the Deathly Hallows restored him."

"Legends suggest that remorse restores a soul that has been ripped into Horcuxes," said Dumbledore.

Harry snorted. "Well, you can be sure he's not feeling any remorse now. He's just angry that all his hard work's been reversed."

"I cannot guarantee it will be possible to exorcise him," Dumbledore admitted.

Harry shrugged and stood up again. "He can't do anything as long as he's stuck with me," he said. For the first time, Voldemort's temper flared and Harry almost winced. "Where are we?"

"Godric's Hollow," Dumbledore answered.

Harry nodded. "I have to go get my kid," he said, prepared to Disapparate.

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Do not tell the Aurors about the Deathly Hallows. In fact, don't say that you were at the Riddle manor."

He nodded, Apparated in the basement of Owen's building, and started to make his way upstairs. Let Dumbledore worry about Deathly Hallows and exorcisms. Harry still needed to see through his original plan. If anything, he felt more confident about it now. When he'd first gotten to the past, he'd assumed that the future Voldemort was hiding inside his younger self. Now that he was sure that wasn't the case, Tommy had a much greater chance of not turning out to be a raging psychopath.

Voldemort disagreed with him, Harry realized as he got to the second floor. According to him, the baby would grow up to do exactly what he had done. Surprisingly, he didn't seem to care about his younger self beyond hoping that he ended up causing as many problems for Harry as possible. The boy wasn’t even competition since Voldemort’s ultimate goal was to return to their timeline, where he’d already established power.

It was irrelevant. What did Voldemort know about empathy and love? As long as he could get Tommy to love him—Merlin, love anyone—then he wouldn't start making Horcruxes as a teenager.

Nipping any anti-Muggle prejudice in the bud shouldn't be too hard, Harry decided as he knocked on Owen’s door. Just raising him around Owen should take care of any unwarranted feelings of superiority. Harry was feeling quite optimistic when the door opened.

Annie greeted him with a bright smile, which he couldn't help but return sheepishly before walking into the flat. She was looking surprisingly cheerful in her favorite pink robes despite Harry inadvertently dragging her into yet another mess. A reciprocal smile died on Harry’s lips when he saw Septimus Weasley walking out of the kitchen. The Auror looked tired enough that Harry wondered if he'd slept all night.

"I'll wait in the bedroom," said Annie, walking past Harry. Owen's flat was so small that there was only a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Harry moved towards the kitchen just to make it easier for Annie to overhear the conversation.

"I assume you know what happened last night," Weasley said when Harry turned around to face him. "We found a Muggle in the basement. He was missing an eye."

Harry refused to say a single thing.

Weasley shook his head and ran his hand through his red hair. "The woman's gone," he continued with a heavy sigh. "If you know something—"

"I don't," Harry interrupted.

Weasley looked at him without any expression. "That baby's family is most likely dead. Mr. Scrimgeour wants to talk to you soon," he finished and then Disapparated.

Harry couldn't help but but be disappointed that Ron's ancestor seemed to hate him, but there was nothing to do about it. If Harry tried to explain, not even Dumbledore would be able to keep him out of St. Mungo's. With a sigh, he set out to Owen's room. Maybe he'd manage to win him over some day, though Harry was sure Scrimgeour would sack him the moment he realized that Harry wasn't ever going to cooperate.

Annie greeted him with another smile when he knocked at Owen's bedroom door. "That was quick," she said, laughing in a way that made Harry worry she’d been experimenting with some happy potions.

Harry shrugged and walked over to Tommy, noting that the entire room was now a cool shade of green that managed to be way more welcoming than the atrocities in the Slytherin common room. The baby was sleeping soundly in his basket, blissfully unaware of the chaotic world he was living in.

Harry smiled tiredly and ignored Voldemort's surge of derision at the flash of hope he felt. It was too late for him, but he would give his friends a better future. He'd try to raise Tommy right, and if that didn't work . . . Well, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

"Harry!" Annie called.

He turned around, once again baffled by her apparent happiness. Paranoia—or maybe Voldemort—suggested that Grindelwald might have done something strange to her. She didn't look wrong though. Just happy.

". . . Did something happen?" he asked cautiously, wondering why she wasn't looking exasperated and worried.

"I'm pregnant!" she cried, then ran over to hug him.

Harry was too stunned to do anything besides hug her back. "How long?" he asked finally.

"About three months," she said without unwrapping her arms from around Harry’s neck. "I thought I was just suffering from stress but I cast the charm this morning!"

"Congratulations," Harry said.

It was good news. If Annie and Owen didn't get sick of him and demand that he stay out of their lives, then Tommy would be raised with another child around.

Voldemort snorted again and Harry suddenly saw a flash of little Tom Riddle torturing a child with what he now recognized as a form of Legilimency. Annie let go of him before he could fully process the memory and smiled brightly.

"I have to go back to my parents'" she said. "Don't tell Owen if he gets back here before I do." She Disapparated before Harry could even nod.

Perversely, Voldemort reminded him of how he'd splinched his intestines recently.

Before Harry could get into a pseudo fight with Voldemort, Tommy started crying. Harry picked him up gingerly, remembering what Annie said about teething, and pulled out his wand. After thoroughly cleaning his hand with a basic charm, Harry gave it to Tommy. He sucked Harry's index finger into his mouth and started chewing, thankfully quieting down shortly after.

Harry lay down on Owen's bed, feeling quite content considering the restored spirit of his worst enemy was still sulking in the back of his mind. He arranged Tommy on his chest, wondering if they had those chewing things he’d seen on future babies’ mouths a couple of times.

Things were really not as bad as they seemed. Grindelwald was probably no longer his problem. Voldemort was hilariously trapped and forced to protect Harry.

For the first time, Harry really believed he had an opportunity to make the future a better place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished!!!!! 
> 
> Well, only editing but still . . . I finished!!!! And before 2015 too. 
> 
> If I do this for the sequel, then the plot will change significantly from what's in FF.net. I still haven't decided if it's something I can start any time soon, considering I have an unfinished WIP that's mightily and bravely reaching for a conclusion even though I'm usually too tired to think, much less write.
> 
> Also, my tumblr:
> 
> http://pathobell.tumblr.com
> 
> This is not where I talk about writing because I like to keep some things neatly compartmentalized (doesn't mean I'm not messy). It's where I'm chronicling my attempts to learn how to draw because I guess I don't have enough hobbies. I also whine about JRPGs I probably shouldn't be playing considering how little time I have. And I reblog things I find interesting, important, or just plain hilarious.


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